


Love, Harry

by Zzzara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Love Simon (2018)
Genre: Alex Strangelove - Freeform, Angst, Based on Love Simon, Blackmail, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Christmas Party, Closeted, Closeted Character, Closeted Draco Malfoy, Closeted Harry Potter, Coming Out, Constellations, Declarations Of Love, Disguise, Dorks in Love, Draco Constellation, Dream Sex, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Epistolary, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay, Gay Character, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gay Harry Potter, Gay Panic, Gay Sex, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Common Room, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Love Simon, Kissing, Lesbian Character, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Love Simon, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, News Media, Newspapers, Oblivious, Oblivious Harry Potter, Oral Sex, Outing, Owl Post (Harry Potter), Owls, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Party, Pining, Public Humiliation, Publicity, Quidditch, Relationship Reveal, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Reveal, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Self Prompt, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Showers, Slow Burn, Spin the Bottle, Wet Dream, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), based on Alex Strangelove, eighth year common room, idiots to lovers, inspired by Alex Strangelove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zzzara/pseuds/Zzzara
Summary: Harry Potter keeps a huge secret: that scary thing he can't tell anyone about. Until a mysterious penfriend changes his life, because he keeps a secret, too.





	1. Dancing on Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on the film "Love, Simon" with the elements of "Alex Strangelove".
> 
> The chapters titles are borrowed from the songs: "Dancing on Glass" by St. Lucia ("Alex Strangelove" OST) and "Wild Heart" by Bleachers ("Love, Simon" OST), and if you treat yourself to these amazing songs before reading, you may feel the vibe I tried to transmit into each chapter.
> 
> Eternally grateful to my wonderful betas: Chris (@keyflight790 on AO3 and Tumblr) and Aleksander (aleksandr_starshow on AO3 , @the-prince-of-tides on Tumblr). Thank you for your help, advice and support. Working with you was great joy and fun! Love you, guys, you are the best!<3 <3<3
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters belong to JK Rowling and other rightful owners.
> 
> Don’t repost/copy this work to any other websites without my permission.
> 
> **********  
> Dear Reader, I hope you'll enjoy this story! :)

**Love, Harry**

 

Chapter 1

**Dancing on Glass**

_Never gonna stop_

_Never gonna stop_

_Never gonna stop_

_Until we break it_

_[St. Lucia, ‘Dancing on Glass’]_

"Have you seen the board?"

"What board?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "The _information_ board. Really, do you ever come close to it, Harry?"

"No?" I shrug, biting into my toast.

The information board in our Common Room never catches my attention. Why would it? Especially when I'm dashing down the stairs, almost being late for breakfast.

"So you haven't."

"So I haven't, why?"

"Someone left a note that..." Hermione lowers her voice.

"There's a gay guy in the Eighth Year," Ron says.

Something drops in my stomach.

"Yeah?" I look at him, trying not to sound unnatural.

I don't know how I am supposed to sound. Surprised but not too eager? Mildly interested but not too indifferent? My heart is thudding. There's no way anyone knows. Surely I've never...

"Did they say who?"

"No, it's just a note that says something like _“Nobody knows I'm gay.”_

Oh.

"Why would someone write that?" I ask, just to have something to say, something to cover the sound of my heart going mad. I am weak with relief. Weak and stupid.

"He must feel lonely, I suppose," Hermione says, "having no one to talk to."

"Who?" I ask, distracted, because Malfoy appears in the doorway with Parkinson on his arm.

She clings to him, whispering something in his ear, leaning in so close that her moving lips almost brush his neck. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth, of his _stupid, arrogant mouth._ Annoyed, I follow the two of them with my eyes all the way to the Slytherin table.

"The one who wrote that note," Hermione says beside me, and I tear my eyes away from Malfoy who now says something into Parkinson's ear with his arm around her.

This is disgusting.

"I imagine he must feel really lonely, if his only option to talk about it is through the Common Room information board."

"Maybe you're right." I stand up. "Meet you there, guys, I have to pick something in the dorm."

Once out of the Great Hall, I speed up the staircase, breaking into the run.

**

_◊_

**_"I am mostly fine these days. As fine as anyone after the war can be. We all cope as best as we can, some of us doing better than others, some pretending to. But there's this thing about me which I can't talk about with my family or friends - this huge secret I don't have the guts to share. Nobody knows I'm gay._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

I read and reread the note pinned to the board near the staircase, my lips repeating the last sentence, stumbling over that tiny word again and again: _Nobody knows I'm gay._ _Nobody knows I'm gay. I'm gay._

_I'm gay._

_Gay_

_Gay_

_GAY_

This morning on my way out I brushed past it, past the group of people standing there, not paying any attention. Not having the tiniest clue that the piece of parchment was already there, waiting patiently for me to discover it. Black lines written in elegant hand that looked a bit familiar to me, as though I’d seen it somewhere; I couldn’t recall. Staring, I felt as though falling deep into the entire new world hidden beneath the parchment-flat surface.

It was meant for me; and though the person who wrote these words has no idea - the message was meant for _ME_ , and I have received it. He reached out, as though offering me his hand - a gesture of friendship, an invitation to honesty - and I am taking it, confirming this secret bond between us. I am no longer alone.

**Noir.**

**

Dropping into the desk next to Ron at the last minute, I barely manage to catch my breath as the class begins.

Flitwick is saying something, but my head is buzzing, and I can't focus on his words. Probably it was a stupid idea, most certainly it won't work; I gave it a try anyway.

_◊_

**_"Hi, Noir!_**

**_I'm just like you. Just like anyone here, pretending to be fine. I have good friends whom I can tell almost anything. But this one thing I've never told anyone about. I have a secret, too - just like your secret. I'm just like you._ **

**_James."_ **

_◊_

I put the letter into the envelope and after a brief hesitation scribbled **_'Noir'_ ** on its front, perching on the narrow windowsill of the owlery.

I selected a bird - a random Hogwarts barn owl - tying the envelope to its leg.

"Deliver it to Noir," I whispered, stroking its feathers. I had no idea if it would work, if this owl wouldn't return back to me in an instant or refuse to leave at all.

As the bird swooped out of the window, my heart swooped with it.

_**_

"Harry?" Ron jabs me in the ribs.

"What?"

"I'm saying, who do you think it is?"

"Be quiet, Ron," Hermione hisses irritably.

I am grateful for this; I'd rather not discuss it. McGonagall is waving her wand in a complicated pattern in front of the class.

"What do you think?" Ron whispers, leaning closer.

_Damn._ "What are you talking about?" I stare ahead.

"That gay guy."

"Dunno." I shrug.

Last night after dinner, an owl was waiting on the windowsill of our dorm. As soon as I entered, it swooped down on my shoulder, and my heart swooped again. My palms prickling, I grabbed the letter. There was only one word on the envelope: **_'James.'_ **

Ron and Hermione had been at dinner still, and I won't deny, I’d left as soon as I could, hurrying to the dorm, hoping for something... I don't know what. Something like _this._

My heart thudding, I shrugged the bird off, and it soared out of the open window.

It's worked, it's worked, it's working! I hadn't felt that excited and terrified in a long time.

_◊_

**_"Dear James,_ **

**_You cannot imagine how excited I am to receive your letter, and how scared, I must admit. So scared, in fact, that I've spent the entire day debating with myself, unsure as to whether I should reply or not. But here I am, sending this owl, to wherever it may find you. (What a brilliant idea on your part, trying to communicate this way. I would have never thought of it myself.)_ **

**_As you have undoubtedly guessed from my message in the Common Room, I have absolutely no one to talk to about things that worry me and occupy my thoughts the most. So thank you for reaching out. You have no idea what a relief I have felt, discovering that I am not alone, that there is someone just like me. And though I don't know who you are, I feel so much better knowing that you exist._ **

**_Sincerely, Noir."_ **

_◊_

**

"Hi." Rising on her tiptoes, Gin pecks me on the lips.

"Hi." I smile, enclosing her in my arms. "How did it go?"

Gin had been away for the audition yesterday. Tryouts for the Holyhead Harpies Chaser position.

"Not bad." She nods, trying not to seem too excited, but the mischievous gleam in her eyes tells me it's more than that, more than just 'not bad.'

"Come on!" I nudge her. "Spill it."

"I've passed, Harry!" She is bouncing, her face lit up with joy; she looks like a drop of sunshine. "They had made me an offer!"

"I knew it!" I gather her in my arms, whirling her around in the middle of the Entrance Hall. Her feet dangle and people are looking at us. Let them. For once, let them stare at us happy.

She throws her head back, her laughing face framed with vivid fiery hair. I bend and kiss her, pressing my lips to her neck, her chin, her nose - wherever I can reach. I love her so much in this moment. The moment of the warmest familiarity, acknowledgment and belonging, erasing everything except our joy from the back of my mind. I wish time would stop; I wish this moment would last for an eternity, suspended in our bright bubble, forever happy.

"I'm dizzy," she breathes out as I lower her down on her feet.

"You are brilliant." I squeeze her in my arms, my head swimming.

I close my eyes for a moment to regain my balance. When I open them again, my gaze lands directly on Malfoy. With his arms crossed, he is leaning against the banisters of the main staircase; he looks like he's been standing there for a while. Still lingering in the moment of bliss, I realise I am grinning at him like a loon over Gin's shoulder. My smile falters. Heading down the stairs, Malfoy looks away.

I lean back to look her in the face.

"After New Year. I'm joining them after New Year," she says, and I nod and smile back, aware of Malfoy at the edge of my vision.

His presence makes me uneasy for some reason. Flare of anger and annoyance is not new to me, but there's something else... 

"I'm so happy for you." I wrap my arm around Gin's shoulders, pulling her towards the open double door. The Great Hall is buzzing with lunchtime.

"I'm starving," she says, hugging me around the waist, "come on."

Brushing past us Malfoy turns, and our eyes meet.

It’s a weird look that he gives me. I mean, it is certainly not new, but somehow it is: this mix of haughtiness and something like contempt, but not _quite;_ and also there's something else. Fascination? I'm not sure. If I could ask him to stop, to stay still for a second, so that I might figure out what it is... But I can't, and it's a brief moment only. Our gazes part, he turns away.

At lunch he doesn't pay me any attention, and though I see no reason why he should, I feel like something is missing.

Parkinson is by his side, telling him something. She is _always_ telling him something with that leering smile that annoys me to no end. It's only when she places her hand on his shoulder, pressing her lips to the side of his face, his head suddenly snaps up to look directly at me across the tables. Automatically I lean into Gin by my side, placing my palm on her shoulder. I don't know what we are playing at... but when she turns to me in question, I shoot a glance at Malfoy and kiss her on the lips. I’m satisfied that he sees.

**

We are good with Gin. Fine. Mostly. Though after the war it hasn't been the same. Well, not _exactly._  Things got fucked up, we fought, we made up. But that's not what I mean.

There's this _thing_... that leads to another thing - the one I have yet to deal with. And I don't know what's wrong with me, but apparently something is, if the thought of it makes me ill.

Just like now, when Gin's hand travels down my stomach to finally rest at my inner thigh, dangerously close to the bulge in my trousers, or rather where a bulge is _supposed to be,_  but... Better she'd left her palm on my chest, safer. But safety is not her goal; she is all fire and danger.

She exhales into my mouth. Rising on her knees, she straddles me and pins my shoulders to the headboard. Our kisses are open-mouthed and hot, and we both know where this is leading. I wince when she bites my lip. We are alone in her dorm, and the door is locked, and no one is going to disturb us. I squeeze her waist, my hands travelling lower to dip beneath the waistband of her trousers. My heart is hammering, our tongues slide together, and everything is hot and frantic and much _much_ more than just kissing. I'm acting eager and aroused - more than I actually am. Because I'm mostly terrified, I am bewildered, and that familiar horrible feeling is spreading beneath my skin: this is not what I want, not at all what I've ever wanted. I'm supposed to fake it. I tear my lips away.

"What?" Gin's face is flushed, eyes hazy, and she is breathing heavily, looming over me.

"Look..."

"What's wrong?" She frowns, sitting down on my lap.

"Nothing... just..." I say helplessly. How am I supposed to put this into words? "It's just..." I look away.

"What?"

Her voice falls flat, heavy with the moment that is breaking between us. She already knows that even if we're still doing this, it's not going to be as she wanted or expected. Because I've just spoiled everything.

"I don't think..." I swallow, still not meeting her eyes.

"Fine, no problem," she says, climbing off me to stand beside the bed. Her tone is light, but I know her all too well. When I look up, I want to shrink under her murderous gaze.

"Bye." She already unlocks the door, slamming it in her wake.

**

On my way to the Eighth Year Common Room, I see Malfoy who is approaching from the opposite direction, until we meet in the middle before the door and stop.

I want to open the fucking door and enter as quickly as possible, but the handle is on Malfoy's side and to reach for it I have either to step around or lean across him. Which I'm absolutely not going to do.

Throwing me a glance, Malfoy takes the handle but doesn't open the door right away. Instead, he's just standing there, looking at me.

I don't know how long it takes, probably just a few seconds, but for me the moment is dragging, making me uncomfortable. I don't know how to behave around Malfoy. He still annoys me to no end, but what had once been is no longer there. Our ire burned out, our vitriol faded. We've both been through too much to still commit to the childish rivalry.

"Skipping classes, Potter?" He smirks, and I am already reconsidering. I'm in a foul mood, having just fucked up with Gin like an idiot.

"Do you plan to open the door any time soon?"

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy does. But he doesn't simply fucking open it, as in opening just to _open_ it. No. He makes a show of stepping aside, opening it wide with a flourish that he knows sets my teeth on edge.

"After you." He bows, inviting me in with a wave of his hand.

I grind my teeth and enter the Common Room. "I don't need your invitation."

I leap up the stairs two steps at a time, pissed off with Malfoy, with this thing with Gin, with myself, with everything. I slam the door of my dorm shut. Thank Merlin, we don’t share it with the git.

Flopping on my bed, I exhale. Fuck classes. I don't want to see anyone. Reaching for the quill and a parchment, I begin to write.

_◊_

**_≈ "Hi, Noir,_ **

**_How are you doing? Things have been pretty awful for me today, and there are those things that I can't tell anyone about. I'm not going into the details, but would you mind if I talked to you a bit?_ **

**_I've been meaning to ask, how did you realise that you were gay?_ **

**_James."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Hi, James,_ **

**_Glad to hear from you. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you were going to write me again. I'm glad you did. Just so you know, you may write me whenever you want, about anything._ **

**_As for your question, I think I always knew that something about me was different, but the actual realisation had dawned at about the age of 14. I have always been a big fan of Puddlemere United, you see. Quidditch Weekly subscription and all. Until I realised that my fascination with the team’s Keeper Brian Doheny was not about Quidditch at all._ **

**_What about you?_ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "For me it was a bunch of little things:_ **

**_First, that dream about another boy I'd been having repeatedly for a month in my third year. In fact, in real life he was a total dick, we always disliked each other, so it was bewildering, to say the least._ **

**_Later, I'd had a bit of a crush on the famous international Quidditch player. But my best friend was pretty obsessed with him as well, so I thought that maybe it was a normal thing, something like admiration._ **

**_Around that time, there was a Veela girl, whom all the boys were obsessing over. I, however, remained immune. That made me question my normalness; that's when I actually began to pay attention to these things._ **

**_Then there was my first girlfriend. Well, maybe 'girlfriend' is too strong a word. We kissed a couple of times. I'd never kissed before, and it was a disaster. Didn't work out._ **

**_Finally, when I saw my friend's older brother, there weren't any doubts left. You have no idea how terrified it made me to think that my friend might somehow guess._ **

**_So yeah, that is how I learned._ **

**_To you all this may seem totally dumb, me being that slow on the uptake, while you recognised this about yourself immediately._ **

**_P.S.: so now I only have to look closely at the Puddlemere United fans around the school, eh? :)_ **

**_James."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "No, James, I don't think you are slow or dumb. One can easily get confused. To the point where it takes a Veela woman to suddenly open your eyes and acknowledge your true nature._ **

**_By the way, I wasn't smitten with Fleur Delacour either. Though by the time she arrived, I already knew I was gay. My crush on Viktor Krum wasn’t surprising for me at all. He seemed a lot like my type. Did you mean him, talking about the 'famous international Quidditch player'?_ **

**_P.S.: I'm curious what House you are in, but I'd better not know. Our letters feel like a safe place._ **

**_Noir.”_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "Hahaha! Stupid of me. Sometimes I forget that you’ve been at Hogwarts all this time, too. Of course you recognised the Veela girl and the Quidditch player I mentioned!_ **

**_My House? Well... Let's say, my House is not the one Sorting Hat wanted to put me in at first._ **

**_P.S.: so you have a TYPE then? And what would that be?"_ **

_◊_

**_~ "WHAT do you mean by your House being not the one you'd been first Sorted into? I have never heard of such a thing._ **

**_Yes, I do have a type. But it differs somewhat from the one I’d had in the Fourth Year. It was tall, dark and brooding. Now, I'm not sure about the brooding part._ **

**_P.S.: do YOU have a type, James?"_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "I don't think I have a type, not in appearance anyway. As for personality - I think you are my type, Noir. I don't know how to put it better._ **

**_About the Sorting business: I’d talked the Sorting Hat out of putting me in the House it had decided first, persuading it to sort me elsewhere."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Persuading the Sorting Hat??? You astonish me, James. And by the way - it sounds a lot like what a true Slytherin would do._ **

**_Am I right?"_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "Well, I'm not saying yes or no... But your way of thinking reveals a stereotypical view of the Slytherin House, which makes me think you are either a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor (because these two tend to fall into stereotypes easier than the others)."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Well well, James. This is Ravenclaw talk."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "If you could choose, what House would you like me to be in?"_ **

_◊_

**_~ "It's an interesting question. I don't think I care about which House you are in. Now - when I know you - a House doesn't matter. You are you."_ **

_◊_

**

Puddlemere United fans are not that easily recognised at Hogwarts, especially when they deliberately try not to give themselves away. But there's another thing I look closely at: handwriting.

I throw glances at people's essays, at the notes they scribble, at the marks on the margins in their Potions textbooks.

Apparently, I can't just go around, peering over everyone's shoulder. A lot of students would consider it weird to say the least, and I don't want to draw attention. Checking mainly among fellow Gryffindors first, I discreetly proceed to work my way through the other Houses. I even manage to sneak a look at Slytherins occasionally. Well, those which I consider worth checking in the first place. I don’t waste my time on those with girlfriends.

However, my investigation proves pointless. I don't see that elegant spiky handwriting that has become so familiar to me. That _"J"_ with a flourish, as in _"James,"_ that catches my eye in his letters. That fancy _"t"_ that stands out. I can't find them. He probably modifies his handwriting. Which is wise, of course, but leaves me bitter, as if he doesn’t trust me. I don't tell him though.

**

It's been three weeks, but I feel as though I've known him for ages. As though he's always been there within my reach. What had I been doing before he appeared? I hardly remember. How had I lived without anyone to talk to?

I mean, there are Ron and Hermione, of course, and we talk, but it's not the same. Ginny and I never talked that much... especially, not about _this_ sort of thing. There are things I've never told them, things I cannot imagine us discussing. Things I tell Noir.

Every night after dinner I hurry to my room to sit on the windowsill and wait for his owl to arrive. We share the dorm with Ron, but after dinner time he usually hangs out with Hermione, which serves me just fine. Once he asked whose owl it was. I said it was from the Prophet, offering me to be interviewed for Halloween. It sounded stupid, but I couldn't come up with a better excuse so quickly. I wrote Noir that my roommate was being overly curious about our letters, so we had to stop for the night. It was yesterday.

Now, I am unwrapping a tiny package that the owl dropped in my palms. It's the size of a jewellery box.

It is a box indeed: plain wooden box with the lid. I peer inside, finding a tiny note there: **_"Unshrink."_ **

I cast the spell, and box takes the size of my palm. What is that supposed to mean? I turn it this way and that, looking at the bottom for signs or markings. Nothing. I close the lid, open it again - and find a piece of parchment that surely wasn’t there a moment ago.

_◊_

**_~ "This is a two-way post-box. I have its twin. Once you put something inside and close the lid, it appears inside my box and vice versa. Thus we can exchange letters without owls. What do you think, James?"_ **

_◊_

**_"This is brilliant!"_ ** I scribble a reply. **_"Where did you get it?"_ **

Putting the note into the box, I close the lid and open it again to find that the note has disappeared. Fucking hell, it's working! I'm grinning like an idiot. I close and open the lid to find a reply.

**_"I made it."_ **

**_"HOW???"_ **I write, stuffing the note inside.

**_"Skills,"_ ** he writes back.

**_"You are brilliant, Noir!"_ **

**_"If you say so..."_ **

**_"I mean it. It's amazing!"_ **

**_"Thanks."_ **

**

_◊_

**_≈ "Hey, Noir, I've been meaning to ask... Halloween’s in a week. Are you going to attend the party?"_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Yes. Are you?"_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "Yes. Are you dressing up?"_ **

_◊_

**_~ "No, why?"_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "Just asking."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Okay."_ **

**

I carry the box with me everywhere, shrunk in my pocket. Checking when no one's watching every now and then. It is so much easier without owls, it is so much more discreet. I can't imagine how one is able to create such a brilliant thing. He must be very smart, another _level_ of smart.

Once, we were even exchanging letters right in the middle of Double Potions! He started it, having the nerve to write me first. Just because he could.

**_~ "Checking on the post, are we?"_** The note said.

I almost laughed out loud. Because, indeed, I was checking on the box during class, hiding behind a huge cauldron on the table in front of me.

**_≈"Writing letters in the middle of the Potions class???"_ **

My heart thudding, I put the reply into the box, closed the lid and peered over my cauldron. I felt the urge to leave my seat. I wanted to wander around the vast classroom in search of that someone, a someone who was fiddling with a tiny box. The entire Eighth Year was present, about sixty of us. He was right there, somewhere, and I had no clue who he was.

I eyed students over the top of the cauldron. No one looked suspicious. Malfoy at the far end of the classroom was having a fit or something. He was cutting, stirring, pouring, making notes, reading instructions from the textbook hovering in the air in front of him, and talking to Parkinson - all at the same time. He looked like he was having an epiphany about the potion-making, transmitting it to life.

"Harry, pass me the pincers." Ron's voice snapped me back to reality. I shook myself, sat down, and put the pincers into Ron's palm.

Making sure that Ron wasn’t looking, I lifted the lid of the box to see a note.

**_~"YES, just because I can,"_   **it said.

**

_◊_

**_~ "I have to tell you, James, I lied about not dressing up on Halloween, sorry. I am just not ready yet for you to figure out who I am."_ **

_◊_

**

The whistle blows, and I am in the air, staring daggers with Malfoy. Wind is messing up his hair, making it flutter and stand on end above his forehead. The colour is burning high on his cheekbones. He has that odd, a bit feverish look on his face, as though he's over-excited about something, trying not to show it. I don't think I've ever seen him like this.

"Scared, Potter?"

Arching that damned _eyebrow_ , he doesn't even give me a chance to spit my reply back; he turns his broom around with a flourish and soars high and away from me. Fucker.

I turn away, too, to take my position at the opposite side of the field and survey the air for the Snitch. It's not an actual game, it's only a training session, but our determination to beat each other is as vicious as ever.

Dodging the Bludger, Theodore Nott flashes past me, clinging so closely to his broom that his broad back in the blue Puddlemere United T-shirt is the only recognisable part of him.

_Hang on._

I follow his movements around the field. The Bludger is deflected by Goyle, and Nott, now out of danger, dives directly onto Seamus below, snatching the Quaffle out of his hand.

"Theo, come _ON!"_ Zabini bellows, hovering near the Gryffindor hoops.

Arching his arm widely, Nott passes the Quaffle, which lands directly in Zabini's palm. With a graceful theatrical somersault, Zabini sends the ball through the top hoop, scoring right past Ron, who is not swift enough for this one.

Malfoy above gives a victorious cry, and I watch how Nott claps Zabini on the shoulder, passing him in the air.

_“Now I only have to look closely at the Puddlemere United fans at Hogwarts,”_ I told him.

Nott's handwriting didn't resemble Noir's in the slightest. But handwriting is easily modified, isn’t it? And Nott seems to be smart and reserved enough. He is neutrally polite with everyone, mostly keeping to himself. His grades are high, and he may be exactly that calm, composed, bookish type I imagine Noir to be. Deep waters. And _Nott Theodore... Noir_ \- maybe there's something here.

Theo is not bad looking, I must admit, not at all. I wouldn't object if he were Noir. Because, let's face it, these things matter. I really wouldn't want for Noir to turn out to be Goyle, would I? The mere thought is ridiculous. No, whoever Noir might be, I'm 100% sure, Goyle is not the case.

My gaze slides from Nott to Zabini, who, I must admit, draws my eyes in his training attire. He is lean, nicely built, strong and graceful. And though his perfect face unsettles me, he is hot, wildly _hot_ , I cannot help it.

_'Hot'_ is the word I've recently allowed myself to think openly about other guys who I find attractive, since... well - since my friendship with Noir started.

It's liberating.

Then there's this Keeper guy William Vyse. Who is handsome in his own way, but he’s not my type. Though I don't know what my type might be, I don't think I have a type - but I can tell, Vyse is _NOT_  it, if that makes any sense.

I look up, and there's Malfoy, hovering above me, his white hair gleaming golden in the sun. Not looking at me, he is grinning to himself, and I have a chance to give him a thorough once-over. Well, if not for the fact that it's _Malfoy_ \- I must admit... If I didn't know him, if I were a stranger, seeing him for the first time... I'd say that Malfoy is the hottest of them all; or maybe the hottest for me, I don't know.

How would Malfoy look at me through the eyes of a stranger? Would he consider me handsome? Okay... what the fuck? What a ridiculous notion. _Get a fucking grip._

In a flash, Malfoy dives towards the ground, and I'm chasing him before I even fully realise what I'm doing. He's seen the Snitch!

**

Some people are dressed up in every fancy costume imaginable, others are not. I am not. Didn't feel like it. I'm having a good time anyway.

Looking around the room, I try to point out who is in costume and who isn’t. He said he'd be dressing up, right? That's what he said, _after_ he said he wouldn’t. I turn my head, and my vision blurs; there are a lot of people here. The Entire Eighth year. The task is impossible to remember and count them all; I'm too tipsy.

" _Draco Constellation._ "

Parkinson's voice among the music snakes its way into my swimming thoughts.

"It's his _costume!"_

I am pleasantly tipsy, reclining on the sofa near the fireplace. Firewhisky. Yeah. Seamus's logistics.

I glance to where Malfoy is leaning against the wall with that same haughty expression. Haughty hot. Haughty. Hottie. Hahahaha!.. I take a sip.

He is dressed in all black: plain trousers and a shirt open in the middle, halfway down his chest. Well, not plain, as in 'simple.' Because his version of plain is usually called something else, I suppose, like... some fancy word, like... _elegant_ or _laconic_ or some such. Something I'd hardly be able to pull off. I think it comes down to the way a person holds themselves... their body language and grace, or lack thereof...

I take a sip from the glass again and relish the burn sliding down my throat, spreading warmth to my fingertips... Yeah…

My eyes are travelling down Malfoy's lean frame, lingering on the black leather belt circling his waist…

And that hand...

the one he's holding down in his pocket…

And down down down…

down his legs (have they always been that long...?)  
to those black shiny brogues, one of which is tapping the floor to the beat of the music...  My eyes go back up, stumbling over that belt buckle (seriously, fuck that thing - the silvery-dull metallic sheen against the black...)  
...over the glimpse of white skin where the shirt is parted and along the long column of his neck, which is decorated with some weird glittering pattern (or is it a trick of the light?)...  
To finally  
Finally

Rest on his face.

" _CONSTELLATION,_ you idiot!" Parkinson whines, tapping Goyle’s shoulder. "Not _constipation!_ " She doubles over, grabbing Malfoy's arm for support.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, bringing the glass to his lips.

My sight is a bit blurry and I squint, peering at him, and finally see: Malfoy's face _is_ painted with a shimmering silvery stuff. It’s glittering, reflecting lights every time he moves his head. It forms a stars pattern across his forehead, around his right eye, snaking down along the neck and chest to disappear beneath the shirt. I don't know how the Draco Constellation looks, but this must be it.

"I’ve done the makeup, my idea," Parkinson says, tapping Malfoy's cheek. He leans away.

"Sorry, darling." She pouts. "I haven't smudged it, I promise."

They are weird, these two. I take a sip.

_Weird_.

Trying to imagine myself in Malfoy's place, I shiver...

…to be Parkinson's boyfriend _... Ugh._

In the sudden need of the loo, I stand up and make my way to the door. It's dark in the corridor, someone has turned off the lights. I move, sliding my fingertips along the wall for balance, all the way to the bathroom door. There's a movement nearby, rustling and a sigh and a hiss, and something hitting the wall.

My fingers touch the handle, and I throw the door wide, illuminating the corridor with the bathroom lights. Nott is pressing into Daphne Greengrass, her hands are deep up his shirt. They still, and he slowly turns to squint at me.

"Close the door, Potter, will you?"

"Sorry," I mumble, stepping into the bathroom and click the door shut.

_Shit._

On my way out, I catch only a glimpse of Nott's brown hair and close the door quickly, hurrying along the corridor.

Okay, then, Noir is not Nott. Not Nott. Haha. Not-not. No regrets. He always seemed too cold to me anyway. Well, what I've just witnessed proves me wrong. He's not cold.

He's hot just fine.

Just not with guys.

_Fuck, I'm pissed._

Swaying, I steady myself against the Common Room door.

Okay, good. I press the handle.

"Sixty-two! Sixty-three! Sixty-four!.." the roar makes me wince.

Fuuuuck, it's stuffy in here.

Leaning against the door, I throw my head back, observing the scene. Three couples are standing in the middle, surrounded by a cheering crowd. Glued to each other in a kiss, they are fiercely making out under the giant sphere of Mistletoe, while people around are spurring them on.

"Eighty-seven! Eighty-eight!"

_Mistletoe?_

It's fucking _Halloween._

No one seems to care.

One couple breaks the kiss, coming up for air, and the crowd whines in disapproval. I see Neville's flushed face, his arm over Susan Bones' shoulder.

Merlin, what _the bloody fuck_ is going on here?!

The two remaining couples are swaying in place in display of passion. I see the girl's bushy dark hair, her hand gathering the shirt on the guy’s back into fist, and _holy fuck…_

I know before I know it: Ron and Hermione are doing it for everyone to see.

I look away. I don't know... I’ve seen them kissing before, but.. _. never like that._ There's something not right in ogling your best friends kissing like _that._ It makes me uncomfortable.

I shake my head.

I'm not okay.

"Two hundred!"

Ron and Hermione break apart, breathing heavily, turning to look at the remaining couple. Malfoy and Parkinson, intertwined in the middle, are acting as though they are committed to sucking each other’s brains out.

I watch as Malfoy's hand is resting on Parkinson's throat, the other one gripping her around the waist, pressed along the length of his body, as he tilts her chin up in a greedy kiss.

I stare at his jaw working, at their locked lips, at her fingers leaving red prints on the side of his neck.

My face is hot; I feel as though I shouldn't be witnessing this, but can’t make myself look away.

I am turned on as fuck.

"Three hundred and _ONE!_ "

Applause.

They don't stop.

"Come on, guys, that’s enough!" Zabini shouts. "That was smoking hot."

Only then do Malfoy and Parkinson reluctantly break the kiss and dizzily look around.

Malfoy's lips are swollen, his glittery makeup smudged in places where she touched his face. There are red marks down his neck, and the shirt is gaping open, revealing his sharp collarbone and the trail of stars down his chest. I shouldn't be staring, but I can't fucking look away.

Music is deafening, and my head is swimming, and people are moving around in flashes of colour; but the only one I see clearly is Malfoy. A black figurine in the middle of the motley crowd, he is wiping Parkinson's scarlet lipstick off his lips and chin, grinning down at his red stained fingers. All I can see is him.

I push off the door, and the room tilts before me, swaying until I catch myself against the wall. I'm pissed, suuuuper pissed, I hadn't noticed until the moment it hit me.

I need fresh air... or something.

Back in the bathroom, I splash my face with cold water and prop myself against the sink to look in the mirror.

"You are drunk, dear," it says.

"I'm pissed," I reply, waving at my reflection.

"Disgustingly drunk," the mirror confirms.

Running wet hands through my hair a few times, I finally leave the bathroom.

Opening the Common Room door, I bump face-to-face with Seamus.

"There you are!" He exclaims, grabbing my arm. "Come on, it's about to begin."

"What?"

"Come on!" He pushes me towards the centre of the room, where people are sitting in circle.

There are all the Slytherins, Dean, Neville and Susan, a bit of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Hermione, however, is in the armchair with Ron on the floor at her feet.

"Sit down, Potty," Parkinson says, "we've been waiting for you."

She places an empty Butterbeer bottle on its side in the middle and takes her seat.

"Spin the bottle?" I ask, sitting down, because _why the hell not?_ This is a party, and I'm having fun.

_"Yes,"_ she says, "the rules are simple because there's only one: whoever spins the bottle... makes out with the person the bottle points at! You begin, darling!" She taps Malfoy’s shoulder.

I feel a jolt of annoyance and something else, visions of Malfoy and Parkinson fresh in my mind. Malfoy is going to have a snogging session again; seems like his girlfriend doesn't mind. It irritates me for some reason.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, pointing his wand at the bottle. The spell sends it spinning on the spot in a blur, and my head is spinning with it. I hold my breath, the mere thought of watching Malfoy doing _it_ again is weirdly turning me on. It seems like an eternity passes before it slows down... slower and slower... until it finally stops.

Someone whistles, making me look up. Parkinson bursts into giggles.

"Well that's _something,"_ Zabini says, and above him I see Hermione covers her face.

I look at the bottle.

No.

But yes.

The fucking thing is pointing directly at me.

Fucking hell.

I look up.

Malfoy is quiet.

My palms are tingling.

He hasn't changed in the face, only his eyes are wide, and a red spot is blooming bright on his cheekbone.

I don't know what's written across my face, I rather hope not what's crossing my mind right now. But I can't stop thinking of Malfoy's swollen lips and his hand on Parkinson's throat, the way his jaw was moving; my dick begins to swell. I'm drunk and it's not helping, not helping at all.

My heart is thudding, this is insane.

"Rules are rules," Daphne says.

Another quiet moment passes. Malfoy stands up.

" _YEAH_ , Draco!" Zabini claps his hands.

I rise on my feet, my legs unsteady, taking a step into the centre where Malfoy is waiting for me.

Fucking hell, this is happening.

I cease breathing.

He comes close.

His face is covered with glitter, almost nothing remaining of the stars. Even his hair is sparkling, like snow in the sun - comes the thought.

He is very close, our toes touching, though to actually kiss we have to lean in.

He is taller a bit, barely nothing, barely same, doesn't matter for a kiss.

His eyes are bewildered, silvery-grey, and I vaguely indicate his eyebrows are dark.

“Fuck, I wouldn't want to be standing where you are, Harry!” Seamus shouts.

“C’mon, Harry, do it!” Someone adds, bursting into giggles.

Fuck. They'll never give me a rest.

My gaze falls on his lips, to the smudge of red lipstick still remaining - Parkinson's mark - and I don't like it there. _Don't_ like it there.

"Come on, boys. Like you _mean it."_ Parkinson says, her voice stark in the quiet room. "It's not done with a _peck._ "

"For _fuck’s sake!"_ Malfoy bristles.

And before I know it, he grabs my neck, pulling me into the kiss.

_Holy fuck._

The taste of alcohol on his tongue hits me, and his mouth is so hot. In shock, I realise that I am kissing back, and my knees would give way, if only his palm at my nape wasn’t holding me firmly in place. His tongue is insistent, he exhales in my mouth, and there's the urge in me to grab him and hold tight. His smell is maddening, my head is swimming.

I'm fully hard. I've never kissed a man before.

"Fuck me..." a voice says into the quiet.

Ginny's voice.

I jump away from Malfoy.

"You’ve got to be really pissed."

My face is burning; what the fuck was _that_? I’ve never felt so ashamed in my entire life.

"Spin the bottle. Wanna join?" Parkinson sing-songs. "Boys are having fun."

I feel Malfoy's presence, but can't bring myself to look at him. Seems like he's as pissed as I am; there's no other explanation for _this_.

Malfoy steps away to sit down and I am standing alone like an idiot.

"Okay, guys," I mumble, walking towards Ginny.

Rolling her eyes, she takes my hand and leads me out of the room. "Let's get some air."

After that I don't remember much. Seems like we'd been outside, ‘getting some air’ for me, but I'm not sure.

I'm in bed. And I don't remember how I’d got here.

**

I'm drunk and asleep and not certain how I feel. My head is swimming, I'm thirsty as fuck, and there's that foul taste in my mouth.

I dream of Noir and the kiss, about kissing Noir who is Malfoy who is Noir. Standing in the circle, just how we were doing it - and the next moment we're lying in bed, and I'm pinning him to the mattress. His mouth is greedy, and I see at the same time how he's kissing me: I'm in Parkinson's place, and people are cheering. _"Three thousand and ONE!"_

_"Smoking hot, James,"_ he says, straddling me in bed, and the stars on his face are shimmering.

_"Draco Constellation,"_ I say, touching my finger to the star on his chest. _"You said you wouldn’t dress up."_

_"I lied, remember?"_

He is shirtless, and I trail the constellation all the way down, to where it's disappearing under his belt buckle.

_"Don't figure me out just yet."_ He grinds against my erection, and I'm about to come. I moan, jerking awake.

It's dark, and I'm in my bed, fully dressed, even with my boots on. I feel disgusting, and I have a boner, a huge boner from the dream about Malfoy-Noir.

Gin stirs next to me.

"Hi." Her voice is scratchy from sleep.

Darkness has faded a bit into the beginning of dawn, and I see she props herself on her elbow.

"Where's Ron?" I ask, my tongue feeling like paper.

"Dunno."

She's in her dress from last night. She told me, when we were outside, that the party in the Gryffindor tower was winding down, when she decided to go find me and stay. Or maybe I imagined this, I'm not sure. But she saw me snogging Malfoy, yeah? That's how we ended up outside in the first place.

_Shit._

I run my palm over my face.

Gin leans in to kiss me, trailing her palm up and down my stomach until she brushes against my dick, making me jerk.

"Alright?" She laughs quietly, giving me another stroke through my jeans.

"Yeah," I say, bucking up into her touch.

It feels good, so good that just a little bit more, and I may come in no time. I close my eyes, concentrating on that feeling…

Yeah...

Just...

like...

_...that..._

Noir-Malfoy is grinding on me, sitting astride, and any moment I'm about to...

When it suddenly hits me: nausea rushes up so swiftly, that I barely have time to catch up with what's going on.

"Gonna throw up," I utter, swallowing the bile down. I spring on my feet and dash to the loo.

When Gin comes in, I am doubled over the toilet, vomiting repeatedly. My eyes are tearing up, I’m shaking, and _fuck,_ spasms are gripping my stomach and I’m heaving again.

"Poor Harrykins," she says over me, when I'm rinsing my mouth at the sink.

"I feel like shit," I say.

She's mocking me, but there's no bite to it, and her eyes are kind.

**

It's Sunday, thank Merlin. I sleep through half the day. Gin left me "to recuperate," she’d said, and Ron is nowhere to be seen.

Waking up around lunchtime, I stagger out of bed and head to the shower.  
The showers are vacant, which is a relief.  
Fuck.  
What the hell had happened last night?

What the fuck had come over me?  
What was I thinking?  
Why did I think the game was even a good idea?  
_Why?_

I step into the shower stall, sliding the curtain closed, and switch the water on. It beats down my head and shoulders, taking away the last remnants of the morning sickness.

How is Malfoy feeling right now about the whole thing? Why had he agreed to play in the first place?

They are a weird couple. I mean, what girlfriend would urge her man to play Spin the Bottle? And Malfoy - was he okay with just _anyone_ snogging her? I mean, Ron and Hermione refused to play, right? If I weren't so pissed, I would've refused, too.

Lathering myself up, my thoughts stray to the kisses: the one that happened...and the one that didn't. I think of kissing him and think of the dream, where I'd taken Parkinson's place. Did we look like that when we were kissing?

Surely not…

Not like that. Not _that_ fiercely.

Not that _viciously._

I grip my cock. It’s already hard. Malfoy-Noir is rubbing against me, stroking me with his hand.

There's a click of the door and footsteps.

My hand stills.

The slide of a curtain. A shower begins to run in one of the stalls to my left. My hand resumes the movement, and I clench my jaw, trying not to make a sound.

I imagine Noir in that shower, touching himself right next to me, having no idea that a stall away I’m doing the same. Maybe he even hears me doing it, not realising what he's listening to. I see his hand sliding over the length, his cock thick and flushed. Water is sluicing down his arching neck. He swallows, his throat moving, leaning against the wall for support. I see the bow of his lips, mouth falling open in pleasure. His blond hair is plastered to his head, turning dark-gold under water, and his hand is moving faster, shoulder straining, muscles rippling alive beneath his skin.

He turns to me - and it's Malfoy.

Malfoy is coming, biting at his lip to stifle a cry.

Silently, I am coming with him.

I lean against the wall.

_Fuck_.

The whole thing has made me a bit sick.

When I'm leaving the bathroom, I see Malfoy emerge from the stall, wrapped in a long black bathrobe, very pink in the face and flushed.

I slam the door.

**

_◊_

**_≈ "Hi, Noir. How are you doing? Have you had a good time at the party last night?_ **

**_I drank a little bit too much, I must admit, so today I'm hungover and sick._ **

**_After that game of Spin the Bottle, I had a weird dream about kissing you... and stuff. You looked like someone I know and don't particularly like. Woke up embarrassed and confused._ **

**_Did you play? ;)_ **

**_James."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Did you? ;)_ **

**_Sorry, James, I'm not going to tell you._ **

**_I don't feel great today either, but the party was fun. I must admit, and maybe it sounds stupid: I have no idea what you look like, but I can't stop thinking about kissing you._ **

**_Noir."_ **

◊

**

"Harry, what's the matter?"

I’m sitting in bed with Gin, naked. I tug the sheet up to my armpits. I have to say something; I don't know what to say.

Things have been going just fine, up to the point when we took our clothes off... And then - not so much. It just wasn't going anywhere, and I could do nothing about it. I don't think I can give her what she expects me to; I can't be what she expects me to be. I am already not.

"Do you want me?" She asks, daring me to reply.

_No, I don’t_ \- how can I say such a thing? But how can I tell her that I do, if I don't, and she already knows?

I shrug. She nods.

"Is there someone else?"

I should say no, that there's no anyone else, and save us both from this final embarrassment. But there is someone else, _there is._  And though I've never seen him, he is there, he exists, he's right here; the one who knows my heart as well as I know his.

"Yes," I say.

Staring ahead, she nods, and I see she is not surprised.

"Fucking _hell_ , Harry," she sounds calmer than she looks, "why would you be such a coward? You should have told me long ago, and I would've left you alone."

"I'm sorry, Gin." I really am.

She doesn't reply. She just grabs her things from the floor and angrily puts them on.

The door slams shut.

**

The next week is a disaster.

It's a week of hell. A week of jeers and taunts. I'm reminded of certain _Potter Stinks_ badges. This shouldn't affect me as much as it does. It still does.  
Malfoy's getting his own version of events, too. We ignore each other completely, behaving as though the other doesn't exist, but it doesn't matter.

So when Friday night finds me in front of the information board in the Common Room, I snap. Swearing, I tear down the moving photo-collage of me and Malfoy. It's arranged like something out of a fucking scrapbook, with hearts and shit, making us seem like we're in love.  My face looks at me, cut out from the old newspapers, enclosed in a huge red heart, next to Malfoy's.

"Fuckers!" I hurl the thing on the floor.

"Cool down, Potter," Malfoy says from the sofa, his voice making me jump.

I had no idea he was there. It's almost midnight. I hadn't been able to sleep.

"Don't be over-dramatic." He looks at me over the back of the sofa.

"I'm fed up with this shit," I say, approaching him.

"They are going to do it for as long as it gets to you."

"Who?"

"Blaise and Pansy."

"What???" I sit down at the edge of the sofa. I can't fucking believe it. All this time he knew it's his friends?

"What?" He stretches his legs out on the carpet, sliding down the seat.

"It's your friends. Your _girlfriend_ is doing this to you, and you're like... - no problem?"

"What am I supposed to do, Potter? Kill them?"

"If I knew _my_ friends were doing this, I'd fucking kill them."

Malfoy laughs, looks like he's really amused.

"I mean..." I realise how it sounds. "My friends would never do that in the first place; they wouldn't find such a thing funny."

"I'm telling you, they're doing it as long as it gets under your skin. If we stopped getting embarrassed, they'd drop it."

"How are we supposed to stop getting embarrassed, when..." I trail off, my face growing hot.

Malfoy throws me a glance; he knows what I'm thinking. No doubt, he's thinking it, too.

"Okay, fine, let's acknowledge what happened, Potter." He stands up, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Acknowledge how?"

How in Merlin's tits is it possible to acknowledge it more than I already do? I'd gladly stop _acknowledging_ it every fucking second I see Malfoy, if I could.

"Acknowledge that we got pissed and snogged in the game of Spin the Bottle, only following its rules. Right?"

"Right." I nod.

"Such a thing will never happen again, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, get over it. And stop being dramatic."

"How?"

"We are going to behave as though it doesn't matter, because it doesn't, and forget the whole thing. Then they'll leave us alone. Agreed?"

Now, Malfoy is the one talking some sense, which is crazy.

"Agreed," I say, and stand up. "At least I'll try." Following some unknown urge, I offer my hand.

He stares... but then takes it, giving it a firm squeeze. It's only a brief moment before he lets go, but it's enough to feel that his hand is warm and strong, it's enough for the thought that it feels good to flicker.

"Good." I sit down.

He mirrors my position at the opposite end of the sofa. We sit for a while, staring into the fireplace. Things are getting pretty awkward again; we are going to end up back where we'd started, before we’ve even begun.

"So." He clears his throat. "What did your girlfriend tell you? I mean... when she saw us."

"Nothing... actually, she laughed."

The word 'girlfriend' makes me want to cringe. It's been a week, and I still feel like shit around Ginny.

"She's no longer my girlfriend. We broke up." I don't know why I'm telling him this.

He turns to me. "How so?"

I shrug. "It wasn't working." Which is true. It wasn't. Though the entire bewildering thing in detail no one will ever hear from me.

Malfoy has a weird look on his face - of wonder, and something else.

"I thought..."

"What?"

"I thought that if there were a perfect couple..." He makes quotes in the air. "That would be you two."

"Really?" I laugh. Who would’ve thought that I gave Malfoy that impression?

"I thought the same about you and Parkinson. Although you two behave like utter weirdos... You suit each other."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... everything..." I wave my hand. "This Spin the Bottle thing. Urging one another to snog other people, what couple in their right mind would do that?"

Malfoy laughs, shaking his head. "We are not in our right mind, Potter."

"I thought as much.”

**

It's absolutely bewildering, but Malfoy and I begin to get along.

We acknowledge each other with a nod every time we meet. I don't recoil when he comes by to sit down on the same sofa, and sometimes he may even ask me something. Like, normally ask, any random thing, and I'd reply – as if we were getting along - more than, actually... as if we were friendly.

Yesterday at Potions, he even moved his things to my table, when we were asked to gather in groups. I realised I didn't mind and spent half the time distracted by his presence next to me.

"Pass me the Asphodel powder." He held out his hand, looking down in the cauldron.

When I didn't react, because he couldn't be possibly speaking to me, he wiggled his fingers impatiently. "C’mon, Potter, we're wasting time."

I grabbed the vial, putting it into his open palm.

"Thanks," he said distractedly, focused on pouring and stirring and not paying any attention to me: how I held my breath for a second, how I looked at his eyebrows, drawn in concentration, how I watched the iridescent flicker of the potion, reflecting in his transparent eyes.

**

_◊_

_**≈ "You know,** **I've been feeling weird recently.** **There's this guy around... I think I like him, but at the same time I feel guilty about that. It may sound stupid, but I feel as though I'm cheating on you.** _

_**I would really like to meet you. I feel like the letters are no longer enough, not for me anyway.** _

_**James."** _

_◊_

_**~ "I understand, James, but I am sorry. I'm not ready to meet in person. I'm not ready for everything to change.** _

_**Tell me about this guy. Do you think he likes you, too?"** _

_◊_

_**≈ "Well... this guy... We've only recently begun to speak. And I realise that he may be better than I thought. We never got along when we were kids, so it's kind of surprising; turns out I was biased and didn’t know him much. He's good-looking, rather handsome in fact, good at sports. He's smart and has a bit of a mouth on him. But I kind of like it, now that we're getting along. And no, I'm sure he doesn't see me that way and never will. He's most definitely straight.** _

_**Remember I told you about a dream I'd had about kissing you? So it was him I saw in that dream. He was you. It feels kind of crazy now, the more I like him.** _

_**This is why I asked you to meet me. I want to know you for who you really are, and not imagine you as someone else.** _

_**James."** _

_◊_

_**~ "You do know me for who I really am, James. Better than anyone else."** _

**

"Are you fucking _blackmailing_ me?!" I barely resist delivering my fist into his stupid leering face.

"Keep your voice down," Zabini hisses, looking around.

We are in the deserted section of the library, though you never know who may spy on you, lurking behind the shelves. Just like he's been doing for a week.

"You are the one blackmailing me, you fucker, why so jumpy?" I shove him in the shoulder.

"Watch it, Potter," he warns.

"What _the fuck_ do you want?"

Surely he wants something; otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation.

He spied on me copying my letters before sending them to Noir, as I always do, to keep our entire dialogue. I usually do it in the library alone, to avoid Ron asking questions.

Zabini's been following me for a week, figuring quickly that something was up. As soon as opportunity presented itself, he grabbed it.

Tonight after dinner, there was a loud burst in the alcove where I was sitting. I knew immediately what it was, I used it myself more than once. Though the knowledge didn't help me against _Weasley Wizard Wheezes Peruvian Powder_ when the darkness descended. After it had worn off in a few minutes, the folder where I keep all our letters was missing. It had just disappeared from the desk! I sprang to my feet and, hoping to catch the culprit, ran around the library, but to no avail.

At a loss, I dropped into my desk, my mind racing... When Zabini approached and flopped the folder in front of me.

He _KNOWS,_ he said. He read them all and copied _everything,_ so I may have them back. But now, he said, he's considering what to do with this knowledge.

I'm so fucking angry, I don't know how haven't I killed him yet, or at least haven't broken his nose.

“I think there is something I want... and I think you can help me with it."

I am staring at him.

"So I've heard you broke up with your girlfriend?"

"What does it have to do with this?" I nod at the folder.

"And you two are still friendly, I assume?"

"What the fuck do you want, Zabini?"

"So if... sometime... you'd help me to - you know..." He shrugs. "Speak to her, get along with her. Do you think you and I might help each other out?"

"What? Why?"

Zabini laughs, flashing his impossibly perfect white teeth.

"I understand, you may not get it - that's why you broke up, after all, I suppose - but she's smoking hot, she's cool, I like her a lot, if you know what I mean." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Though, apparently, you don't."

"Listen, _you!_ " I grab him by the collar. "Don't you fucking dare to drag Ginny into this, I'll fucking kill you! Stay away from her!"

"Wow wow! Easy!" He shoves me in the chest, standing up.

"I strongly recommend you to think twice, Potter." He perches at the edge of the desk.  _"Otherwise..."_ He sighs theatrically, spreading his hands.

I stand up. "Otherwise what?"

"You know what. The entire school will learn your dirty little secret."

My patience snaps. I punch him right into his toothy smile. Crying out, he stumbles back, falling off the desk and on the floor. I loom over him. Another blow into his nose, twice. I see blood is dripping in rivulets down his smooth brown skin, and it feels so good. I should have done it long ago.

"Fuck you!" I grab the folder from the desk and leave.

**

_◊_

_**≈ "There's something I have to tell you, Noir. Something has happened, and you may soon find out who I am. Please, don't freak out, I don't want to lose our friendship. Please, promise you won't stop writing to me."** _

_◊_

_**~ "I don't think of anything freaking me out into stopping talking to you, James. Don't worry."** _

_◊_

_**≈ "Considering that soon there'll be no point in pretending for me anyway, I think we should actually meet, before the truth comes out."** _

_◊_

_**~ "Again, I'm sorry, but no. Please don't ask."** _

_◊_

_**≈ "What are you afraid of? That you might not like me?"** _

_◊_

_**~ "No, James. The other way around."** _

_◊_

_**≈ "Why? Is this an appearance thing?"** _

_◊_

_**~ "Yeah, you could say that. Well, not quite literally... But you could say that."** _

_◊_

_**≈ "Yes, but no, but yes? What is that supposed to mean?"** _

**

"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione says, scribbling in her Arithmancy homework.

We are alone in the library. Ron didn't feel like studying.

"Hmm?" I turn to her.

I'm not all right; after what had happened two days ago, I am most certainly _not all right._ Anxiety is nagging, not giving me a rest. What will happen when Zabini tells everyone? Is he going to do it soon, or is he planning for the time to pass and for me to calm down before delivering the blow? And when he does, how am I going to handle it? How may it change my relationship with Noir? He said it wouldn't change anything, but I know it would. Once you know a person - the whole person, not only the way they either think or look - it changes everything. For better or for worse, but it always does.

"You've been so withdrawn..." She looks at me. "For a long time."

For a couple of months, yes, since the moment Noir appeared in my life.

We grew apart with Ron and Hermione, the three of us no longer being as attached in the hip as we used to be. But we are not kids anymore. The two of them are having their relationship to deal with and I... We all have our secrets, our secret lives, reluctant to share everything with each other, always on our guard. And since I'd begun talking to Noir, I hadn't needed anyone else to talk to - to really talk about the things that matter to me. A pang of guilt tells me that perhaps I've been neglecting my friends, and they noticed.

"Is everything okay, Harry?"

"Yeah... I... I think so, I'm fine." I can't tell her about what's really bothering me, can I?

_Or can I?_

Since when have I become unable to share my doubts or fears with Hermione?

Since when have I stopped trusting her?

In fact, I haven't. It's just being carried away, caught up in Noir, I've stopped thinking of Hermione as someone important for me enough to share my thoughts with, while she's always been there, as she always is, caring for me all along. No matter that there’s no question of life and death or saving the world anymore - she is there for me, any time when I need her. I am a shitty friend.

She resumes scribbling in her essay, and I look for a while at the neat rows of equations appearing from beneath the quill.

"Hermione..." I take a deep breath. "I'm... "

She turns to look at me. When I don't elaborate, she frowns.

"I think I'm in love," I finish, as close as I can to what I've been actually intending to say, because one thing and the other for me at this moment don't differ much.

She stares at me.

"And... gay," I add.

_Done._ I exhale.

She doesn't change in the face, only barely raises her eyebrows and nods. "All right."

"All right?" I ask.

"Yes." She squeezes my shoulder. "Perfectly fine, you don't have to worry."

It's as though a huge weight is being lifted off my chest, letting me finally breathe. No matter what happens next, she is by my side, and everything will be okay.

"Thank you," I say.

"I love you, Harry." She pulls me into a hug. "You never needed to worry about it."

"I love you, too." I squeeze her shoulders, I feel like crying. I breathe. "May I ask you to... tell Ron?" I say into her hair. "It's just..."

"Of course. If you want."

It would be easier - for not to have to come out to Ron, for Hermione to do it for me. It’s cowardly maybe, but Hermione offers help, and I take it.

"The thing is..." I lean back to look at her. "Something's happened. And soon it may become known to everyone. It may not, I don't know, it may happen later. But when it does – better if Ron already knows."

"I'll tell him. Tonight. Is it okay?"

"Yes." I nod.

She doesn't ask what has happened.

**

Descending the main staircase on my way to breakfast, I realise people are whispering.

I know immediately. _This is it._

A week has passed since our fight with Zabini. And though I've been expecting this to happen any second, when it does - I am still not prepared.

My hands are trembling, and so would my voice if I spoke, my face growing hot. I could have turned back and hide in my room, calm down and prepare myself to face it, but I've already reached the door of the Great Hall. There are people behind me, and turning back now would only make everything worse.

"Potter, are you all right?" McGonagall is by the entrance, looking concerned. It strikes me that teachers also know, I've never considered it before.

"Yes, Professor." I nod, feeling thousand miles far from 'all right'.

On wooden legs, my heart wild, I enter the Great Hall.

I'm not afraid, it's just... the shock of everyone watching, of several hundred eyes burning through my skin.

I am not ashamed; bewildered and scared shitless - yes - but not ashamed.

It's just the thought that all these people - everyone within these walls - have no doubt read the words that I was pouring out of my heart only for Noir to see, every single one. I feel stripped off my skin, laid bare, exposed for everyone to laugh at. My every notion, doubt, sadness and joy; my every day, night and morning; my smiles, my laugh, a flicker of attraction, an innocent teasing and a plain truth.

_... I think you are my type, Noir..._

_... I've had a dream about kissing you..._

All this, all _Me,_ serving as someone's joke, or the reason to shake their heads in bewilderment and pity, turning me into a sultry gossip.

It suddenly strikes me that Noir must be feeling exposed, too, and for the first time I am grateful for not knowing who he is, so that no one knows, and I am not able to give him away.

All this flashes wild through my mind as I'm approaching Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table.

"Harry." Hermione's face is concerned, and she moves along the bench, offering me space to sit between her and Ron.

I sit down under people's stares. And though nothing can make me feel better right now, when they move close, pressing into my shoulders at both sides, as though daring anyone to approach me or say anything, there's relief and gratitude for the safety of their love.

I think I can breathe again.

"Mate." Ron, puts his arm around my shoulders, as though steadying me for what is to come, while Hermione puts the open newspaper in front of me, where my eye catches rows and rows of steady lines in the dear familiar spiky handwriting:

_**"... I have no idea what you look like, but I can't stop thinking about kissing you... "** _

Something squeezes in my throat. I try to swallow it down, to no avail. It's my heart, threatening to choke me.

"He had handed them down to the _Prophet,"_ Ron says gravely. "The entire school wasn't enough."

When I told him and Hermione about Zabini, Ron was threatening to kill the fucker.

_'HARRY POTTER'S SECRET GAY LIFE.'_

I've made a headline today, and half the _Prophet_ is filled with our letters with Noir, laid out scrupulously, according to the dates. My letter-his reply-my letter-his reply. For the whole of Wizarding Britain to digest with their morning tea.

"You still can deny it, you know," Ron says quietly, "charge them, roast the fucking _Prophet._ There's nowhere written directly that it's you. It's only Zabini's word."

"Why would I deny it? You know it's true," I say, "and what would Noir think of me, if I did?"

"Your Noir is the one to _talk!_ " Ron bristles. "He's sitting here somewhere, safe, watching you being thrown to the wolves."

"Ron," I warn him.

"Ron!" Hermione says.

"Okay, okay, sorry," Ron says hastily, raising his palms.

But Ron’s words, however, stay with me all day long. If our positions were reversed, if he were exposed and I stayed anonymous. Would I step forward? Would I reveal myself? I don't know. It's easy to demand it of him, once everything's happened, and I have nothing to lose.

**

_◊_

_**≈ "So now you know, Noir. I hope very much that it doesn't make a difference to you.** _

_**Harry."** _

_◊_

**

For two days I check the box every half an hour, going mad.

I'm skipping classes, sitting in my room with Ron, who's skipping, too. I'm grateful for his support. We stuff ourselves with cakes from the kitchen, which he brought to cheer me up.

Although there's not a word from Noir, Ron's plan of improving my mood makes me feel better indeed. He's probably busy, I think. And though uneasiness deep down tells me that it's not the case, I dismiss it, deciding to wait it out.

We are standing on the landing with Ron, deciding whether or not to go down and play chess on the sofa, when the door opens with a _bang!_   Ginny strides into the Common Room. She crosses the room to the group of desks where Slytherins are sitting, and her manner - the vicious way she walks - tells me that something's about to happen.

"Zabini!" She calls, and the heads snap up. Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott and Zabini in the middle.

"Stand _the fuck_ up and come here!"

Nott whistles; Zabini stands up, walking around the desk and towards Ginny in a slow, deliberate gait. As soon as he approaches with his hands on his hips, Ginny punches him in the face, hard.

"Fuck!" Zabini cries out, clutching at his nose.

No one reacts, so bewildered their faces are.

Ginny sways her schoolbag, hitting him across the head, which sends him, stumbling, onto the desk.

"What the fuck?!" Parkinson springs on her feet.

"You don't know?" Gin raises her voice. "This is for Harry. Ask your _friend."_

She whirls around, fiery hair flying in her wake, and exits the room.

Down in the Common Room, Zabini rises on his feet. Malfoy is saying something to him, leaning over the desk. Parkinson sits down, placing her hand on Malfoy's tilted up arse, giving it a pat.

I turn away to look at Ron.

"Well, I told her," he says.

**

_◊_

_**≈ "Please, Noir, say something, don't abandon me. Things are shitty, which no doubt you are aware of. I couldn't bear if you turned away."** _

_◊_

I send the letter and wait, and wait. It's past midnight and I'm in my bed. If he isn't asleep, surely he isn't busy at the moment not to have time to check on the box. Shurely he hasn't forgotten about me. With the whole school gossiping about me these days. I don't think he could.

I open and close the lid, open and close it again, _click-click, click-click._ So when I open it for the hundredth time and see the note inside, my hand is already closing it by the force of habit.

My heart gives a jolt. I hastily open it to grab the note.

_**~"I am sorry, Harry. I can't."** _

_**≈"Why? Can you at least explain?"** _I scribble frantically below his words, stuffing it back inside.

When I open the lid, the note is there, the same one that I've just put in. I close-open-close-open and repeat. It isn't passing through, which has never happened before. I try again. In vain. The box has ceased working. He's closed the connection.

At a loss, I am staring at the note, feeling such emptiness inside, as though my entire core has been ripped out. My throat hurts, and my face is crumpling. I realise I'm crying only when my glasses blur from the inside.

**

"Wanna come to Hogsmeade with us?" Ron asks on Saturday morning. He and Hermione try to cheer me up. I’ve told them about Noir.

"Thanks but no, don't feel like it."

"Harry, come on! Are you really going to sit and mope all day long?

He doesn't say:  _To mope about someone who is not entirely real, someone you've never even seen; someone who refuses to talk to you after learning who you really are."_

He doesn't say all this, but we both know he means it, saying instead: "Are you going to waste this weather?"

The weather is really great. The end of November is so crisp and bright.

"No," I say, "I'm not going to waste it. Maybe I'll fly a bit." And maybe I actually will.

"Right." Ron sighs. "Suit yourself."

Ron is great, and I appreciate his concern.

**

The evening Hermione told him I'm gay, returning to our room he sat at the foot of my bed.

On tenterhooks, waiting for him to return, I didn't even pretend to be reading, or asleep. I just sat there, waiting.

"Hermione told me," he said, "as you asked." His face was solemn.

"It's your business, Harry, and I kind of don't want to make it about me... but..." He turned to face me fully. "Damn, Harry, did you actually think I'd turn you down or laugh or what, if you told me yourself?"

Looking at his bitter face, I realised he was offended. Offended by my lack of trust.

"I'm sorry." I'm an idiot, I thought. How could I ever doubt Ron?

"Don't apologise, just... just so you know, you can trust me, mate." He squeezed my toes through the blanket.

"I'm sorry, Ron," I repeated, "it's just... I trust you, it's not that... it's terrifying to say the thing out loud when no one expects you to, when everyone expects the opposite."

"All right, mate." Nodding, he grabbed my hand, pulling me up close, until I bumped into him, gripping him around the shoulders, and he squeezed my back, and we were all right again.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He had no idea what it meant to me - his blind acceptance. If Ron stood by me, I could do anything, anything at all.

"No problem, mate. I love you, you now?" He leaned back to look at me. "But _no homo."_

"No homo," I repeated solemnly, and we burst out laughing.

**

Hermione dragged me to the library yesterday after dinner.

"Come on, Harry, time to catch up with your homework."

Obediently I followed her. "Maybe you're right," I said. But we both knew she was doing it for me not to be alone.

"Have you heard from Noir?" She asked, busy with leafing through the book.

"No." I propped my chin on the desk. "Not a word."

"Harry, look, you are upset... but you don't know his reasons."

"The reason is that he had freaked out learning that it's me. He liked me well enough not knowing who I am." It makes me so bitter. "I have no idea what repels him, but it's something about ME."

Hermione squeezed my hand in reassurance, but she was only trying to cheer me up, knowing that in fact I'm right.

I've fallen in love with someone, whom I've never even seen; someone who, having found out who I am, doesn't want anything to do with me.

**

The Quidditch pitch is deserted which serves me just fine. I'd rather not be around people now. I breathe deeply the crisp sunlit air. I'm glad I came.

Approaching the broom shed, I see the door is open, and by the sound of it someone's rummaging inside.

_"Fuck!"_

I stop in the doorway.

Malfoy with his back to me throws a broomstick on the floor, retrieving another one.

I clear my throat, and he jumps, whirling around.

"Fuck, Potter," he says irritably.

I bend down and pick up the broom he's just dropped. "What's wrong with it?"

"Everything's wrong, come on, Potter, you own the _Firebolt Deluxe Premium._ " He rolls his eyes.

I do. _Firebolt Inc._  had sent it to me as a birthday present this summer, but I hadn’t even unwrapped it. It’s at Grimmauld. I plan to give it to Teddy, once he’s a bit older.  

"You're too posh for your own good, Malfoy.”

We haven't spoken with him for a while, certainly not after all this gay business with the Prophet. I've been avoiding him for some reason, probably wary that he would mock me or pass remarks. You just don't go hang out with Slytherins after being outed to the entire world by the one of them, right? Now I'm surprised and unexpectedly glad to see him, realising that maybe I even missed his company a bit.

“It's a perfectly fine broom." I turn to leave, putting the broom over my shoulder. "Stop whining and come on." I nod at the pitch.

He mumbles under his breath something like: "No taste in fine things," but follows.

Malfoy is all irritable today. Though not refusing to play, he avoids looking at me and replies mainly 'yes' or 'no' when I say something. As soon as we meet in the air, every time he turns his broom around, leaving me looking at his retreating back. I cannot stop staring at how his hair is gleaming in the sun, cannot stop noticing how graceful his movements are, how strong and sure his posture looks on the broom. I am afraid of being too obvious, anxious he might notice, anxious twice because now he knows I may look.

He beats me to the Snitch twice, and for the third time I am determined. We dive towards the ground in the double arc, our shoulders almost touching, arms outstretched in pursuit of the deceptive flash of light. The earth is approaching, but neither of us is losing his nerve.

Just a moment before it's too late, I pull out of the dive with all my might. And Malfoy doesn't.

I hear, rather than see, the moment he hits the ground: the air is torn with his strangled cry. I turn my broom back.  _"Please, please, please,"_   is repeating in my head over and over. Relieved, even from here I see the movement: he curls into a ball on his side.

I hop off the broom, running to kneel beside him.

"Malfoy!"

He peers at me from under windswept hair.

"Malfoy, what?!"

He nods at his left arm, trapped beneath his body. Only his fingers are visible, and I don't like their colour at all.

"I think I've broken my arm," he says in a voice thin with pain.

"Can you sit?"

He nods. I help him to sit up, and his face crumples. Looks like he doesn't let himself cry only because I'm here.

_"Fuck,"_ he growls, revealing his broken arm.

"Merlin's tits!"

Surely his hand is broken as well: the wrist is twisted, fingers sticking out, bent at an awkward angle. They are of a sickening bluish shade of purple... and, honestly, I'd better not _look..._ but I'm staring anyway, feeling my guts turning over.

"Let's get you to the hospital."

With my help he slowly gets on his feet.

_"Fuck,"_ he gasps, when I grip him around the middle. "I can't breathe."

"At least you can stand, which means your spine is not broken." I put his arm over my shoulder. "Lean on me."

Slowly we  trudge across the pitch.

It takes ages to finally get to the Hospital Wing.

"Why haven't you Levitated him, Potter?" Pomfrey asks, waving her wand over Malfoy in the bed; his sweater and shirt vanish, making me flinch and look away.

"I refused," Malfoy says to the ceiling.

_"Absolutely fucking not, Potter,"_ he hissed, leaning on me on our way to the castle,  _"I'm not a fucking air-balloon."_

"It was most stupid of you indeed, Malfoy," Pomfrey snaps, "it has dislodged your broken ribs in the process. Lie still, don’t move."

I turn to look as she waves her wand, casting something that makes Malfoy cry out in pain, as his bones align with a loud sickening sound.

"Breathe deeply," she orders, "do you feel any pain or sharp pressure, prickling, or any other sensation in your midriff and your back that wasn’t there before the accident?"

Malfoy breathes, and I watch how his chest and thin stomach move. It makes me embarrassed, I look away - at his broken arm, now fully revealed, lying flat on the mattress, inky lines of the Dark Mark stark against his skin.

"No, I don't feel anything of the sort," Malfoy replies.

"Good. Now your arm."

Although I've always known that Malfoy had got the Dark Mark... Actually, I never  was aware that it's _there._ And seeing it now - ugly and black - is a shock. Unapologetic evidence what he'd once been. The proof, the stain that will never be removed, no matter how he may change.

I think he's changed, or maybe he'd never been _it_ in the first place? Never was fit for the Mark? I saw him, I know; I'll never forget that awful night when Dumbledore died, and I couldn't help it. When Malfoy was holding him at wand-point, I saw ugly fear and weakness and desperation of an animal trapped; but that was all I saw. And though something tells me that if one makes such shitty choices, probably there is more evil in him than in those who don't - I don't know what would've I done if my family was threatened; I never was in his place.

"Stay still." Pomfrey casts a series of little spells over his wrist. "This is badly fractured.”

Whatever she may think or feel looking closely at his Dark Mark, she doesn't show, proceeding steadily in her work, as the bones align with a faint sound. Pomfrey is a tough one; she gives the impression of a person who'd seen the worst. It's a Healer-thing.

Malfoy's eyes are closed, grimace of pain distorting his features.

I should probably go, I think, there's nothing for me to do here. Instead, I sit on the vacant bed and watch.

Realisation dawns on me just now: I'd never seen Malfoy show his arms. Of course, I never paid attention to that little detail but now that I think of it, trying to recall these details about Malfoy since the beginning of the term...

Seeing him for the first time since the trials where I spoke for him and his mother, sparing them from Azkaban, I thought that he'd changed a lot. He arrived at Hogwarts with the rest of the Eighth Year. Keeping his head down, he mostly kept to himself and to Parkinson's company, who was notoriously famous as well.

I don't think I remember him wearing anything short-sleeved, even on the hottest of days in early September, when Quidditch practice first began for the season. Unlike the rest of us, he was always clothed to the brim, buttoned up, and was never seen taking his jersey off. In the locker room and showers, he always entered the stall with his shirt on and emerged nearly fully dressed. Of course it made sense.

Once the trials were over, sending his father off to Azkaban, Narcissa Malfoy had written me a letter. Humble and grateful, she thanked me and said that her son joined in his gratitude, which he also no doubt would express in person. But he never did. I didn't expect him to. Hermione told me he'd approached her, trying to apologise. She said it was good that he repented and she appreciated the effort, but certain things cannot be forgiven, though one may try to move on.

I was certain Malfoy would never talk to me about it.

I was right. I never wanted to talk to him about _it_ either.

And though we'd begun to get along, at least a little bit, and I was beginning to even _like_ him, his Mark and our past... those were things that would  always be _there._ They may have moved from the front of my mind to the back, but some barriers cannot be crossed or dismissed.

"Almost done, don't get up." Pomfrey stands up. "I am going to fetch some potions."

Malfoy opens his eyes to look at me. "Thanks, Potter."

"What for? I’ve caused that shit in the first place."

Malfoy shrugs. I look at his forearm, now mended, at the Mark that snakes down, not quite reaching his wrist. He probably catches me staring, because he grabs his sweater from the bedside table and covers his upper body, tucking his arms underneath.

"Blaise is a jerk," he says, looking at the ceiling, "Pansy and I'd fucking rattled him. What he’d done was low even by his standards."

My heart jolts. I never expected Malfoy to address it.

"He'd done a shitty thing," I say, "but that’s what Slytherins do."

All the pressure of these past few weeks is back again; all the humiliation and helplessness Zabini evoked has returned.

Frowning, Malfoy looks at me.

"If you think I'm surprised," I begin, shaking my head, "I'm not. I don't know why _you_ would be either."

Malfoy winces but says nothing.

"What?" My anger is bubbling now, hot as new. "Just the other day you told me it's your way of having fun. When your friends were humiliating us."

"It's not the same."

"No, it's not. But your sort doesn't see the difference."

Malfoy sets his jaw, there's a red blotch burning on his cheekbone. I'm cruel. I want to be cruel.

"You have _no idea_ what it feels like to be exposed like that, and for me it's still not over."

"I had nothing to do with it, Potter," he bristles.

He had nothing to do with it, no; but what I'm talking about is bigger than that. It's this _thing_ between us, everything that makes us who we are; all our choices that cannot be fixed; everything that we've never talked about.

I'm letting it all out now.

"But you are his _friend!_ You see nothing wrong with his jokes!" I raise my voice. "Who the hell has friends like that, if not one of them?!"

Malfoy opens his mouth to say something and closes it again.

"My friends would’ve never done such a thing, to anyone. _Ever._ And that's what differs _you_ from _us!"_

"Go away, Potter. Get out." Malfoy's face is ugly, sneering. _"Get the fuck out!"_

I spring on my feet.

"What's going on?" Pomfrey enters with a box of vials.

"I have to go," I say, not looking at Malfoy.

Leaving the room, it's all I can do to keep myself from slamming the door as hard as I can on my way out.

Fuming, I stride down the corridor, reliving the conversation in my head, which only makes me angrier. No, I'll never get along with Malfoy, with people like him - with the fucking _Slytherins -_ who have no qualms kicking people when they're down.

_What he'd done was low even by his standards._ Malfoy’s words are coming back to me.

_I had nothing to do with it._

_Pansy and I 'd fucking rattled him._

And maybe I've been unfair, for once he'd tried to call his friend out on his shit. My anger is still vivid, but reaching the end of the corridor, I stop.

I turn.

Slowly, I walk all the way back to the Pomfrey's door. Opening it, I peer inside. Already clothed, Malfoy is standing with his back to me. Pomfrey hands him a vial. I close the door and lean against the wall.

Malfoy emerges. He doesn’t spare me even a glance and quickly walks past, retreating down the corridor. I jog after him.

"Malfoy." I catch up with him, keeping up with his stride. He says nothing.

"Malfoy, I've been unfair."

He looks at me. "No, you were right."

"You're not Zabini, and I shouldn't have said that."

"You don't know me, Potter. I’m worse."

"Would you just... stop for a sec?" I grab at his sleeve. "I apologise, okay? I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry."

He exhales, looks away, shakes his head. "No, in a lot of things you've been right."

"But in a lot of things I haven't...” I drop his sleeve. "Look, Malfoy... I don't want things to get back to shitty." I wave between us. "I’ve fucked up, but I'm sorry."

He looks at me, not saying anything for a long moment, then shakes his head. "Alright, Potter." He resumes walking, but in a slower pace, and I follow.

"Alright?" I ask.

His face is resigned and frowning, but he nods and says: "Alright" in the end. And I feel better.

**

Reporters can't harass me at Hogwarts.

But people can.

Owls ‘To Harry Potter’ arrive daily.

_◊_

_"Dear Harry,_

_If you are in search of a boyfriend, please write me: Xxxx._

_Peter, your biggest fan since 1991"_

_◊_

_"Potty, The Boy Who Was Naughty,_

_If you are naughty enough, I’ll be your Daddy._

_Consider carefully and write back: Xxxxxx._

_Sir Harold"_

_◊_

_"I’m 24, gay and Spanish. Tall brunet; workout in gym and do dancing._

_This is my address for when you want to contact me sometimes, because I think of you very often. You know I like you a lot, and I love you, very handsome baby._

_Joaquin: Xxxxxxxx."_

_◊_

I read them, growing hot in the face in the middle of the Gryffindor table and for the life of me, can't share their contents with Ron.

Only when McGonagall intervenes (tipped by Hermione, no doubt), do the letters stop.

The novelty of me being a thing at Hogwarts is wearing off. But all the same, people stare; they whisper and throw glances at me. How long will it take for them to stop?

**

"Potter."

I turn on my way up the staircase.

Zabini.

"Potter, wait."

I don't.

He catches up with me, blocking my way.

"Fuck off." I try to step around.

He takes me by the arm. "Potter, listen... hear me out."

I glare at him, but stop anyway.

"Potter, I'm sorry. I did a shitty thing. I only realised just how shitty it was when the _Prophet_ came out. When I saw you that day in the Great Hall, it didn't seem funny anymore. It was fucking terrifying." His gaze roams over my face, searching for mercy I don't have. "I feel awful."

" _Awful,_  really?" I shove him in the chest. "Stay the fuck away from me."

He stumbles and catches himself on the banister. Brushing past him, I don't look back.

**

Eventually I'd given up, reconciling with the finality that Noir had disappeared for good.

At some point I'd felt relief - no longer having to wait. No more anxiety and failed expectations if I don't expect anything in the first place.

Having begun to spend more time with Ron and Hermione again, I realised how much of myself I'd been giving away to Noir, how little I needed anyone else, how little I noticed anything around me - to the point that I distanced my friends.

A couple of weeks ago Gin sat beside me at the Quidditch stands. The day after she punched Zabini.

"Fucking hell, Harry," she said, "you could have told me long ago."

"I should have, I'm sorry," I replied, watching the Hufflepuff team practice; it was easier not to meet her eyes.

"You should have." She nudged me with her shoulder. "It would've been fine, we wouldn't have been so miserable all this time. I felt something was wrong, but didn’t know what it was."

"I'm sorry, Gin." I looked at her.

She squeezed my hand.

"I love you," I said, pulling her close. Pain and relief - that's what I felt. Pain and relief.

She hugged me and held me and whispered: "I love you, too."

After our fight in the hospital, I started to hang out with Malfoy. Flying together and sometimes even sitting in the Common Room.

I had started it. He was reluctant and withdrawn and not at all enthusiastic about it, keeping his distance, as though always on his guard, .

"Are you alright?" I asked him once, "you seem down recently."

"No it's fine, I'm fine," he said. He apparently didn't want to discuss whatever it was on his mind.

We got a habit of flying together after classes  a couple of times a week. Ron joined us once, but he feels awkward around Malfoy, so usually we're alone.

"Flying with Malfoy? You? How even?" He asked me at first, when I awkwardly offered to come with us.

I shrugged. "Why not? He's good at flying... we sort of... get along."

"Okay... whatever, mate," Ron said, bewildered. He didn't mind that much, but apparently his friendship with Malfoy will never happen.

Despite the pang of guilt every time the thought crosses my mind, I even begin to think that maybe it's for the best that Noir had left. So many things I have gained back, so many discovered anew. Hell, I even befriended Malfoy since I'd ceased to obsess over Noir and live for his next letter.

If someone told me a half a year ago that I might eventually like Malfoy, I would have laughed in their face. To like him, to really like him as a person? When the hell freezes, I would have told them.

I mean... I certainly found him rather hot and even secretly indulged in ogling his body. But what is happening now - is another level. Afraid of being too obvious, I often avoid looking at him too much, lest he'd notice me admiring him.  And now he might, nothing prevents him. But he never asks anything. Apart from his words about Zabini in the hospital, he hasn't referred to the gay-thing even once.

Sometimes during Quidditch I catch his gaze on me. Our eyes meet a second before diving for the Snitch. And there's challenge: desire to prove, outsmart and show off, that is always our driving force. But also something else, genuine and bright, something like joy, something that makes me feel myself to be the reason of it.

He might like me as well, I think. Otherwise he wouldn't be spending hours flying in my company, would he? Flying until it's dark, until our fingers go numb from cold, until I barely see him, and he shouts over the deserted pitch:

_"Hell, it's freezing! Let's stay a bit more!"_

**

Sorting my things out in the drawer, I come across the post-box. I haven't touched it for about a month, having ceased to carry it around in my pocket as I once did.

I trace its polished surface with my fingers, relieving a thousand times when I _opened-closed-opened-closed-opened_   it, waiting for his reply.

I open the lid.

Although I see what I see, at first I don't comprehend, staring dumbly at the white note. It's only when all the blood rushes to my face, I realise my hands are trembling.

**_~ "I'm sorry. I've been a dick. I miss you._ **

**_Noir."_ **

The note is dated two weeks prior.

I grab my satchel, frantically rummaging for a quill.

**_≈ "Noir! I haven't checked the box for a month. I thought you'd never write again. I miss you, too. Please, write back._ **

**_Harry."_ **

I put the note inside and close-open the lid. It passes. I exhale. It has to mean he waits for my reply, even if two weeks have passed since he sent this note. _It has to._

I settle to wait, checking the box every now and then. Nothing. Here I am again: hanging on the thin thread of hope, ending up right where I'd begun. Ready to sit and wait as long as it takes, and exchange everything for a word from someone who isn't entirely real. And I thought I'd got over it. I promise myself that this time, if he doesn't write back, I'll get rid of the box and set myself free.

The reply comes only late at night, when I'm about to fall asleep.

**_~ "Harry,_ **

**_I haven't checked the box for a few days either, and opened it only now. To be honest, I had ceased to hope that you'd reply to my note, that you'd want to speak to me again._ **

**_I apologise for disappearing like that. I abandoned you when you needed me the most, and I'm so sorry. I had my reasons for doing so, though they don't justify my behaviour._ **

**_You have no idea how glad I am to receive your reply, how I missed you. If you still want to speak to me - I am here._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "Of course I want to speak to you! Our letters became a part of my life, and once you suddenly were no longer there - everything felt so empty._ **

**_A lot of things happened while we didn't speak. I'm so grateful to my friends for their support after all this mess with the Prophet broke loose._ **

**_I hadn't told you how our letters ended up published there in the first place. Zabini spied on me and made copies. He wanted to blackmail me, I refused to cooperate. He tried to apologise the other day, but I told him to fuck off. He can't go around doing shit like that to people, and then just apologise._ **

**_I came out to Hermione and Ron before the Prophet business, so they already knew and were insanely supportive. I don't know what I would do without my friends._ **

**_I never asked you, do you have friends?_ **

**_Harry."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "I apologise again, I'm so sorry for causing you all this distress. I felt very lonely without you, too. But  I absolutely had to distance myself._ **

**_I do have friends, though probably they are not as understanding as yours. Or most certainly I myself am not as good as you to have friends like that. What I mean is our friendship doesn't go that deep with anyone, except, maybe, for one person, whom I know since infancy. And though sometimes things get fucked up, I trust her. She's my closest friend. She is the only person except for you who knows I'm gay. I came out to her - or rather she'd figured it  out on her own, cornering me one day, so I had no choice but admit it, which was terrifying._ **

**_I can't even begin to imagine how you felt, being forced to put yourself on display for the whole world._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "It was absolutely terrifying, and even now, when it has mostly died down, I wish it hadn't happened like that. What makes me so angry is that a choice had been stolen from me. A choice to share or not  something this personal about myself._ **

**_Before you discovered my identity, had you ever thought it might be me?_ **

**_Harry."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "You know, Harry, at the beginning I'd had that brief notion, nagging at the back of my mind, something you said - it could have pointed at you, but it didn't, not quite. Consciously I'd never thought it might be you._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "What did I say?_ **

**_Well, if you looked closely, you could have figured it out easily. James is my name, you know. My middle name, after my Dad._ **

**_Harry."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Of course I knew James is your middle name, but somehow I didn't KNOW._ **

**_What you said exactly, I'm not going to point out, sorry. It would give you a hint to discover who I am. And I have my reasons not to let that happen, believe me. I don't want to lose our friendship, and that is exactly what would happen if you knew._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "I can't imagine what can possibly make you think that. At first I was afraid that upon discovering who I am - anything about me - my personality, my appearance would put you off; the fact that it's me in the first place - not to sound cheesy - but all that attention I get may freak out anyone, and rightly so. I hate it._ **

**_Harry."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "Oh no, it's not your appearance, Harry, don't worry. In fact, I'd always found you rather attractive, even before our letters started, before I knew it' was you I was talking to. Though you are right as to the fact that it's you - everything about who you are and what you represent, and everything I will never be able to live up to. I don't go further into details, sorry._ **

**_Noir."_ **

_◊_

**_≈ "I am totally bewildered and confused. I have no idea what you mean. But I think your ideas of what I 'represent' and what I am are a bit exaggerated, or rather a lot._ **

**_I am insanely nervous and terrified of telling you what I'm going to say next - but I think I'm falling in love with you, or maybe already have. Which may come not as a surprise to you at all._ **

**_But I'm saying this to assure you that your fears of meeting me are ungrounded. I don't know who you are, or what you look like, but I KNOW YOU. And what I see makes me want to meet you more than ever._**

**_You are not out, I know, but you don't have to make any public statement. If we could just meet and talk in person. If you just gave me a hint..._ **

**_Love, Harry."_ **

_◊_

**_~ "You have no idea, how I feel right now, reading your words. Because they make me torn between the desire to give in and meet you, and fear of losing what we have. And no, Harry, my notions on you are not at all exaggerated, believe me, I know it better than anyone else._ **

**_As to the hint... I'm sure I shouldn't tell you this... Probably I secretly hope to be discovered, fearing that you will find out, hoping you won't shun me once you know who I am._ **

**_The hint has always been right there, all the time: in my nickname._ **

**_Love, Noir."_ **

◊

Noir

_Noir_

I am an idiot.

It sounds like French, but I always assumed it to be some fancy made up name.

I don't speak French. I'm not going to ask Hermione, or anyone. I haven't even told them Noir had returned.

Dashing to the library, I frantically leaf through a huge French thesaurus. Strange, alien words jump on the pages, blurring before my eyes. At first I even skip it in my haste, turning the next page. Finally, here it is:

" _Noir_ \- _black."_

**_Black._ **

I exhale.

Does he probably mean that...

Immediately my mind strays to all the black guys in the Eighth Year. Which are only two: Dean Thomas and... _Zabini._

I go cold.

Is it some cruel joke?

Has Zabini somehow taken hold of the post-box? Has it been _him_ all alone, all this time? Mocking me, making me pour my heart out on the pages.

I feel sick.

I feel as though being hit across the head. All this suddenly makes disgusting sense... He tried to apologise... That is why he refuses to meet me. Surely, if it's _Zabini_ , after what he'd done...

This is what he meant by me breaking our friendship.

_This is what he meant._

Putting the book on its shelf, my hands are shaking. I feel my life - my entire self - being someone's disgusting joke.

Maybe I am mistaken, and it's not even French, but some other language where 'Noir' means something else. Or if it's indeed French and 'black' - it can possibly mean a bunch of different things, having nothing to do with the word's literal meaning.

But he said it's a hint, and what other hint may be in a word that means colour?

If it's black, if it's Zabini, if all this suddenly is not real... The thought is a punch in the gut.

I must ask Dean first.

Retrieving the Map from my bag, I spread it over the desk, my eyes searching, searching frantically for the dot _‘Dean Thomas’._ I search through the Eighth Year dorms and the Common Room, he's not there. But I see Zabini on the sofa with Malfoy next to him.

I find Dean in the library, not very far from where I sit, and, thank Merlin, he's alone.

Approaching, I brace myself.

"Hi."

He looks up from his book. "Hi."

I immediately think that he is good-looking, that he's actually very nice: funny, smart and creative, decent and easy to be around. Although we've never been close, never talked much, and Dean hardly ever occupied my thoughts before, I like him a lot, I can easily see him writing me all those letters. I would be happy to find out that Dean is Noir.

"Dean... may I ask you something?" Standing before his desk, I tug at the strap of my satchel. 

"Yeah?" Looking up at me, he raises his eyebrows. He has very intense, expressive eyes. He is adorable.

"Is it you?"

He looks at me.

"Are you Noir?"

"No." He shakes his head. "It's not me, Harry, sorry..."

There's understanding and a bit of pity. Everyone knows about Noir. Everyone read his name splattered across the Prophet.

"Are you alright?" He asks, frowning.

I'm not alright, and probably it shows on my face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He gestures at the empty seat next to him.

"No... thank you, Dean... thanks." I back off.

**

I wrench the Common Room door open, heading straight to the sofa to grab the front of Zabini's shirt. I press my knee into his stomach and his eyes go wide.

"What _the fuck_ do you think you're doing?" I spit the words in his face. "I'll fucking kill you."

Face bewildered, Zabini doesn't resist, he doesn't even deny anything.

I grab his collar, shaking him back and forth; his head bangs against the sofa.

"Potter, what the hell?!" Malfoy springs on his feet, trying to wrench my hands away from Zabini's neck. "Get off him!"

Horrible realisation crossing my mind, I stop and turn to Malfoy.

_Everything is clicking into place._

Malfoy finally manages to wrench my hands off Zabini. "Are you insane?!"

I shove him in the chest. "You must've had a good laugh, eh?" I shout.

Malfoy flinches.

"He showed you the letters no doubt?" I point at Zabini.

Malfoy's eyes widen, though he doesn't look surprised, not at all. It's all the evidence I need.

"I bet you even helped to write them, having a good laugh about _idiot Potter_ falling into your trap."

Malfoy shakes his head. “No!”

"What you are talking about?" Zabini asks from the sofa in a strangled voice.

"I'm talking about this bastard." I point at Malfoy. "Making the two-way post-box to help you play a very funny joke on me; just like he'd made the Vanishing Cabinet work to help his Death Eater friends out." My voice is cruel, and a helpless look on Malfoy's face makes me even angrier. "Old habits die hard, _Malfoy?"_

I reach into my satchel and retrieve the box. By the look on Malfoy's face, he recognises it, he knows perfectly well what it is.

"This is some wild shit, Potter, but it had never happened." Zabini stands up. "I may have exposed your letters, which I told you I regret, but I swear, I have nothing to do with writing them." He looks at Malfoy, whose face is something between horrified and resigned.

"I hate you, I fucking hate you." I look between the two of them.

"Potter..." Malfoy begins, but I don't listen.

I turn away, hurling the box into the fireplace. Before the flames begin to grip it, I cast _Incendio,_ making it burst into hundred fiery sparks.

**

The worst thing, the thing that kills me, that makes me feel as though something has been ripped out and stolen when Noir had turned out to be a joke - is that I was mistaken about Malfoy. All this time, while I was growing fond of him, he'd been carrying out his disgusting plan, scheming another blow. All this time, while I was falling in love with Noir.

I feel sick.

I believed him to be a better person. Better than that. Stupid of me.

Skipping classes, I shut myself in the dorm. When Ron asks me what's going on, I shrug and say that I'm probably falling ill. I can't even begin to explain all this to my friends. And to be honest - I don't even want to.

Only when a few days pass, and I'm sick of lying in my bed, doing nothing, going on in my head in circles, only then I begin to remember a bunch of little things. Only then afterthoughts begin nagging: that a lot of letters Zabini couldn't possibly have sent because they appeared when he was right in front of me.

If it’s not Zabini, what does ‘black’ have to do with Malfoy?

Why would they deny it in the first place? Why give me a 'hint', a chance to figure it out, and then deny so stubbornly that the whole thing has been their doing? It doesn't make sense. Isn't it a perfect opportunity to admit everything, laughing in my face?

I have a feeling, or maybe just desperately want to believe, that the person who wrote me all those letters wasn't pretending, that whoever he was - all this time Noir was genuine. There are things you cannot fake. And besides, his first note had appeared at the information board in the Common Room, how one could possibly plan what would've happened next?

**_~ "I don't know, I'm not entirely sure why."_   **Noir wrote, when I asked him why had he done it in the first place, why had he written that note.

**_~ "I think, I 'd sent it out into the world to see what would happen, how people would react, what they would say. I didn't expect anything in particular. And then YOU had happened, Harry. You 'd reached out, and I was no longer alone. Having been carrying this in me my entire life, suddenly I had someone to talk to, someone who’d understand, because he was exactly the same. To say things I'd have never said otherwise. It felt so exhilarating - to know that there somewhere, right beside me, among the people I see every day, there's someone just like me; and though I don't know who he is, or what he looks like, I know him, and he knows me better than anyone."_ **

What if I'm mistaken, and Noir has nothing to do with Zabini?

_Fuck._

I had destroyed the box.

What must he think, without a word from me for the entire week?

He may think that his hint had helped me to figure him out. He may think that now, once I know who he is, I don't want anything to do with him. He surely thinks that he was right, that once I knew, I'd end everything between us, just what he told me he was afraid of. And I've done exactly that.

_Fuck._

**

I send owls. Quite a few in the past two days.

They return undelivered. Noir sends them all back, not even opening the letters. I despair.

I have to do _something_ , I must. To right my mistakes, to apologise. To let him know that I haven't abandoned him.

How?

There's the Quidditch match tomorrow. The last one of this term before Christmas. Gryffindor-Slytherin.

◊

**_≈ "Dear Noir,_ **

**_I hope you are reading this note, because it's my last chance to reach you and apologise._ **

**_I have stopped writing to you not for the reason you may think. By mistake, I 'd destroyed the box, and now I don't have any means to reach you. The idiot I am, I thought I'd figured out your hint, and for a moment I'd mistaken you for someone else playing their dirty pranks. But now I know that I was wrong. I may not know your name or what you look like, but I know YOU - the person behind your letters: you are cautious and considerate. You put your words carefully, and they are always perfect¹. You are sensitive, smart and insightful, and you had taught me so many things about myself._ **

**_If you forgive me, if what we shared between us still means something to you, and if you don't want to let it go - tomorrow, as soon as the Quidditch match is over, you know where to find me._ **

**_Love, Harry."_ **

_◊_

I pin the note to the board in the Common Room. It's rather a banner written in huge letters, it occupies the entire space. I have to be sure he'll notice, that he won't walk past having no idea what I'm trying to say. I step back. My palms are sweaty; people are watching, and my heart is going mad. I am self-conscious and unsure, terrified of exposing myself like this. One may say that I'm a reckless idiot Gryffindor, and I most certainly am. But this one last time I have to make sure that Noir understands perfectly clear what I mean, that this time I've got it right.

Walking up the stairs, I glance back at the room below, at all the people watching, talking, reading my note. Zabini is pulling Malfoy aside, whispering urgently in his ear, and Malfoy is shaking his head.

**

"Leave him alone, Blaise."

"Pans, no listen-"

"Leave him _the fuck_ alone, you've already done enough shit."

I see Parkinson and Zabini on the landing. He is clad in his Slytherin Quidditch attire for the match. In argument Parkinson pushes him in the chest, and he leans against the railings with his arms crossed.

"Potter!" He calls, when I brush past them to the staircase.

"Blaise!" She warns him.

"Fuck off," I reply, not looking back at them on my way down the stairs.

"Shut the fuck up!" She says angrily when I almost reached the door. Not sure whom she's addressing.

**

Malfoy is fierce, absolutely vicious, flashing through the air like an utter devil, his green cloak billowing angrily in his wake.

The morning is bright and very cold. But even colder was his gaze when we met in the air after the whistle blew. After that he hasn't looked at me even once.

I haven't talked to him since the night when I confronted him and Zabini. I probably should; I don't know how. How to even approach him after everything I shouted in his face? I don't know. I'm still not entirely sure if I'm even right, if Noir wasn't a joke. But I hope.

In an hour Malfoy beats me to the Snitch, abruptly ending my endless hovering. I let him. My heart is not in it anyway. It's going mad in my chest, waiting for what is to come once the game is over.

Slytherin wins the season, people are cheering, and I have nothing left to do but follow my team down.

I hope off the broom a bit to the side of the others, already feeling people's eyes on me. I grip the handle for support, remaining on the spot among the receding crowd. Everyone knows why I am here, and what I am waiting for. No one calls me or says anything. Even Ron. Throwing me a worried glance, he follows the others to the edge of the field. People gather in circle around the pitch. I see Hermione next to Ron; I see Seamus and Dean and Neville, pressing his fist to his mouth. Ginny shakes her head, taking Ron by the arm at his other side.

I am alone in the centre. My breath is shallow, the broom in my hand is my only support, and my heart threatens to choke me.

Writing the note, focused solely on what Noir may think, I hadn't considered all this. I hadn't thought that the entire school would be present. I hadn't thought that for that very reason he may not come.

I hadn't thought.

_Idiot._

Silent minutes pass, only disturbed by a stray murmur around the circle.

He doesn't come. He isn't coming. He will not.

I exhale.

Standing here motionless, I've calmed down a bit. Okay, good. This is over. I've done everything I could.

I am about to start walking, when a sound from above makes me look up. The sun is right in my eyes, making it barely possible to see a figure in the air, approaching on the broom.

When Malfoy hops off in front of me, I don't understand. Whatever it is he may want, why the hell approach me right now?! Why _now,_ if he knows perfectly well why I am here, and whom I am waiting for?!

"Hi," he says breathlessly, his face flushed from the wind.

I stare at him. "Malfoy?.."

I want to say that I'm fine with him wanting to talk and sort things out, and that we'll definitely talk if he wants. Just not right now. _Not right fucking now_ \- when Noir is about to be here any second; when, seeing me talking to someone here, he certainly won't approach.

"I’ve brought you another one," Malfoy says. His eyes are urgent, searching my face.

"What?" What is he talking about?

He offers his open palm, as though for a handshake, and when I look... There's a tiny wooden box, polished and dark, identical to the one I'd destroyed.

"Malfoy... What?.."

I no longer understand anything. What is that supposed to mean? Where did he get it? Why is he doing that? Does it mean I was right? Does it mean he'd made the box?

I stare at him.

He is nodding, his eyes are wide.

"Where did you get this?" I say.

His face falls.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then shakes his head. Throwing the box at my feet, he bends down to pick up his broom and walks away.

The crowd parts before him. At a loss, I stare at his retreating back.

What the hell has just happened?

"You are a fucking blind idiot, Potter!" Someone shouts.

I see Zabini, pulling Malfoy away with his arm over his shoulder. Malfoy throws his arm off, speeding up until he breaks into the run, disappearing around the stands.

People are turning their heads, pointing in his wake; bewildered noise is rising among the crowd. Hermione covers her mouth with her hand, and Ron rubs at his forehead. Ginny is standing motionless, hugging herself around the middle.

I look down at the box.

Only when I pick it up, it _finally_ strikes me. Clear as the day. It's been staring me in the face all along, only I was too stupid to realise it.

"I can't fucking _believe_ how dumb you are, Potter!"

In shock I gape at Zabini, at his angry stride towards me across the pitch.

He stops in front of me. " _Black_ is his mother's family name."

It is, of course it is.

But I've never  _ever_ thought of that. I, who had Sirius for a godfather.

Zabini is so pissed off, that I see he barely restrains from punching me. I would gladly punch myself.

"It was never a joke, Potter, _NEVER!_ Not to him. It has _nothing_ to do with me. It was him all along, it was _real!"_

I feel ill.

"I'd figured when you told us about the boxes."

I don't know what to say. What am I supposed to do now?

"I’d been a dick... but Draco is my friend, and I want to _kill you_ for fucking him over like that. How dumb you can be for doing what you'd done? Calling him out to meet you in front of all these people! And when he comes, humiliating him even more, refusing to see what's under your nose!"

"I..." I’m helpless.

He's right, I've ruined everything. And how on earth am I supposed to fix it?

Zabini shakes his head and walks away, leaving me alone in the middle of the field with a tiny box in my palm.

**

**_≈ "I'm sorry. I 've ruined everything, and I don't know how am I supposed to fix it, or is it even possible. I badly offended you, and I apologise. That is the least I can do._**

**_Harry"_ **

I put the note into the box and close the lid.

Days pass. There's no reply.

I haven't seen Malfoy almost for a week. He skips classes, doesn't attend meals. Parkinson throws me murderous glances every time she sees me.

I have to do something, but I don't know what or how. Did he even read my apology, or did he destroy it not bothering to take a look?

"This is crazy, mate," Ron had said after the whole business on the pitch. "I still can't believe it."

"He has locked himself in his dorm," Hermione said.

"I know." I've been checking on him on the Map: he doesn't leave his room.

"Fucking hell, Harry." Is all Gin had said, squeezing my hand.

She is leaving after Christmas, and I envy her. Maybe it would be better for me to leave, too?

I can't leave, I know. Not until I sort out this thing between us. In spite of everything, in spite of shame and embarrassment, I realise I’m not ready to lose him for good.

There's no reply... and I'm sure there won't be. Until in the morning before the Yule Ball, the note appears.

**_~ "Are you disappointed it's me?"_ **

Handwriting is different, not utterly so but still. He wrote this one with his own hand.

**_≈ "No, Draco, I am not. Bewildered, yes, and scared as fuck, but not disappointed."_   **I write back.

I am wildly anxious to put it like this, but we've reached the point where nothing but honesty can work.

_There's no reply._

**

I am standing by the wall with a glass in my hand, observing the couples whirling on the dance floor. Music is loud, gowns are dizzying. I am dressed up and on tenterhooks.

A glimpse of blond hair flashes at the entrance, and my heart gives a jolt.

_He_ enters with Parkinson on his arm. In a black tuxedo and a bow-tie that look utterly Muggle, he holds himself stiffly, staring ahead. Heads are turning. It looks as though Parkinson is the one walking, and he's being dragged along, putting his feet one in front of the other. I feel for him. I know better than anyone what it feels like: to be under the fire of hundreds eyes.

She's all raised chin and bare shoulders, a tiny waist and silvery scales of her long shimmering gown; all immaculate bob haircut and arrogance, staring from beneath the black fringe.

I am walking before I know it. On wooden legs. Before I realise I am already halfway through the dance floor. People are moving around, unaware that the beat of my heart in my ears is more deafening than the music that fills the Great Hall. As though from a big distance, I watch them approaching, until there's no floor between us left to walk on. We stop.

My face is hot. My palms are prickling, and I feel the urge to run my hand through my hair. Although our suits are almost identical, I most certainly look like a simpleton, compared to his elegant grace. He looks at me, but _not quite,_ as though he's chosen a spot between my eyes to stare at, to give an impression that he looks at me while he doesn't. I adjust my glasses.

"You look sharp, Potter." Parkinson gives me the once over. "I've brought your man." Releasing his arm, she comes close, taking the glass out of my hand. "Don't fuck it up."

She steps back and turns away, disappearing among the crowd like a silvery fish dissolving in dark waters... and when I finally brace myself to look at him... he is staring at his feet.

"Hi," I say.

He looks up. His eyes are waiting, expecting _something_ that I have no idea how to offer. We stare at each other, until I realise that people around us are no longer moving, that the entire Great Hall is holding its breath.

"I..." I say, "I'm... I need some air."

Cursing myself and my weakness, I brush past him, making my way through the crowd, faster and faster, out of the Great Hall, until I reach the main staircase and stop.

I hate myself. For not being able to overcome this _thing,_ this fear of being exposed. Although I faced it multiple times, every next time is as good as new.

Staring at the huge Christmas tree in the corner, I lean against the wall, music from the open door of the Great Hall beckoning back, inviting me in. To come back and fucking _face it._ If there's still anything to face.

"I shouldn't have come," he says very close to me.

How long has he been standing here? I turn my head. Hands in his pockets, he is leaning against the wall.

"It's not that," I say.

"Then _what is it,_ Potter?" His voice is resigned, and it's ' _Potter_ ' that stings like a lash across my face.

"It's just... everyone's watching..." I hate myself.

He nods. "I'll go."²

Pushing himself off the wall, he heads back to the Great Hall.

The sound of my shoes against the stone is loud in the empty entrance hall. It's only when it breaks into the run, I realise that it is I who is making it.

I catch him by the arm at the entrance, right in the open double doorway.

This time I don't hesitate.

I barely have a moment to brace myself, barely have a second to see a flash of blond hair falling across his bewildered eyes, as I whirl him around to face me, to wrench him close and meet his lips.

He gasps, trying to pull away, trying to wrench free... but my arms around his back hold tight. He is tense as a string, ready to snap any second.

I don't let go.

When he finally kisses back... _once_ and _again..._ I release my grip to cradle his face in my palms, to lean back and look at him, to press my lips to his chin and his eyes and forehead. The feeling of his hands sliding up my back, their reassuring pressure fill me with joy. Enchanted snowflakes are catching in his eyelashes, and there above his shoulder I see a glimpse of Mistletoe. We don't need it.

"Hi," he says.

He frowns, gripping me firmer around the waist.

"Hi," I say, grinning back, and lean in to kiss him again.

**

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[1]: _‘You put your words carefully, and they are always perfect’ –_ quote from Simon’s open letter to Blue in the film ‘Love, Simon’.

[2]: _"- I shouldn't have come._

_\- It's not that._

_\- Then what is it?_

_\- It's just... everyone's watching._

_\- I'll go.”_

\- dialogue between Alex and Elliot at the Ball, from the film ‘Alex Strangelove’

 


	2. Wild Heart

Chapter 2

**Wild Heart**

_Everything has changed_

_And now it's only you that matters_

_I will find_

_Any way_

_To your wild heart_

_[Bleachers, 'Wild Heart']_

It feels like an eternity has passed since our lips met, but eventually we have to break it.

As soon as we do, the reality snaps into focus: the noise, the music, people around. I need to get out of here. Right now I just want to escape.

"Come." I take his hand, pulling him through the door and back to the Entrance Hall.

I feel wild, crazy and my face is burning, I can't bring myself to look at him.

"Where are we going?" He drops my hand.

We stop.

His lips are bright, but his eyes are guarded; he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"What do you want, Potter?"

I don't know what I want. I thought that I do, but I don't. That kiss was an impulse, a driving force, and the momentum is wearing off, leaving only uncertainty and wild tension.

I want Noir, but that would sound cheesy. It would sound stupid, it would be offensive, because there is no Noir and has never been - all this time it was only Malfoy. And now, when the dream and reality clash, when two images become one, I am at a loss. I don't understand what I feel, what I want. I don't know.

"I don't know."

"I see," his voice falls flat, "I'd better go."

He turns to leave, but I grab his arm. "No!... I mean... look..."

"You don't owe me anything, Potter," he says over his shoulder, shrugging my hand off, "it's stupid."

"It's not stupid... and...  look... it's kind of crazy, yeah? All this..." I wave my hand. "Absolutely wild. Can we just... sit for a second and talk?"

I take his hand again; he says nothing, following me all the way to the inner courtyard dimly lit with the Christmas decorations. The fountain in the centre is running merrily, and the falling snow doesn't quite reach the glowing surface of a giant Warming Charm, which encloses everything in the protective sphere. There's no one here, and the place is quiet, though music swims in from the doorway. I lead him to the small bench behind the Christmas tree.

"Look, I'm sorry," I begin once we are seated, "for walking out on you. I've fucked up... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just kind of shocked, I wasn't thinking." How many times I’ve already said that? How much is yet to say?

"I get it..." he says, "me too." Still holding my hand, he doesn't look at me. "I had no idea Pans was going to do it, until she dragged me to you."

"Is she your girlfriend?" I have to ask, I understand nothing anymore.

"No, she's not. She's my friend."

"Then _how?.."_ I'm not sure what I'm asking, what exactly.

How then does it appear that she is? How in hell are the two of you able to kiss like that? Why are you doing this? Are you sure you're gay?

"Ah, it's..." He laughs. "It was pretend, making appearances. She's a lesbian."

"What???"

"What?" He turns to me, looking down at our joined hands on the bench. "For our parents to leave us alone. Otherwise they'd be matching us with suitable people for getting engaged."

Now, this is another level of crazy.

"Because of her, I've never considered that it might be you," I say, "Noir."

At the name his head snaps up.

"I mean... I was looking for a gay guy, yeah? Who wasn't supposed to have a girlfriend?" I squeeze his hand.

"Look, Potter... I know you are disappointed, though you said you are not, but..."

"Don't call me _Potter_ , for fuck's sake. And I'm not disappointed, it's just..." I stand up, he drops my hand; I grab it back, locking it between my palms.

"It's crazy. I know how to speak to Noir. You're not Noir, but _you are_ , I know you are, it's just I don't see it."

"You knew how to speak to _me,_  too," he says quietly, "but now you don't. And I don't know how to speak to you either. I shouldn't have given you any hints, because whatever happens, it's not going to be the same."

He's right, everything has changed.

"Not the same, no," I agree, "but otherwise we would've never met. And I wouldn't want that to happen."

"Maybe we'd better haven't..."

I look down at him. "I don't think so. And I don't think you do." I nudge his leg with my knee.

"Come on, Potter, you don't know me," he says in annoyance, standing up.

We look down at our joined hands. His palm is warm, and it's so nice to feel it against my skin. This is ridiculous, I think, how we still keep arguing, while our hands already know what's best for us.

"I know you, I think I do," I say, squeezing his hand, "I talked to you, and you talked to me, you wrote me all those letters." I step even closer, leaning into him. "And stop calling me Potter."

He starts saying something, but I shut him up with a kiss. He lets out a frustrated sound, kissing back, giving in and demanding, as though trying to prove the point. I feel his hand at my nape, holding me in place firmly; the side of his jaw is so smooth under my fingertips, and the faint smell of his cologne is already my favourite thing in the world. It feels so right, so brilliant: his body, his touch, everything. There’s no the faintest doubt: this is what I want.

I break the kiss. "Sorry... can I kiss you?"

Slowly he opens his eyes; it's as though the kiss has softened his sharp features, or maybe it's the Christmas lights.

"You are ridiculous." He shakes his head. "Yes, you _can_... Harry."

It's only when his lips are hot on mine again, when I’m drowning in the kiss - as an afterthought - I realise what he's just said.

Just a moment before I thought that nothing can add to this brightness. I was wrong.

**

Trying to turn on my side, I find myself trapped between his back and the sofa - there's no room. I don't feel my left arm up to the shoulder, and my neck aches, bent between the cushions at the awkward angle. I open my eyes, trying to blink the grogginess away.

I see a tuxedo jacket hanging off the back of the armchair. Very likely it's not mine, I don't remember hanging it. I’m in my shirt and trousers, and my glasses are on the carpet under the sofa - he said he had put them there. But I can't reach them now. Draco's head is a heavy weight on my arm, and Merlin's tits - we'd fallen asleep in our shoes. He is tucked into me on his side, and I am smashed against the back of the sofa.

I try to stretch my legs. He stirs. Carefully, I slide my arm from beneath his head - I must do it before it dies completely - he turns anyway.

"Hi."

He is sleepy and warm and so adorable. I kiss him, I absolutely must; he smells so good.

"Hi."

He turns on his side to face me, lifting his head, so that I can retrieve my arm.

"It died." I wince, spreading my fingers out. "It's dead."

Tucking a cushion under his neck, he smiles. The light is dim in the room, and I can't see his face clearly.

"Pass me my glasses," I say, "please?"

**

Last night we left the Ball, kissing up on walls in every corridor we passed on our way to the Common Room. Emboldened by that newly discovered freedom, empowered by the knowledge that we were allowed to - it was so maddening, new and perfect, we couldn't get enough.

As soon as we entered the Common Room and the door clicked shut, a sudden realisation that we were completely alone and no one was going to disturb us stripped us of our bravery, shutting the carelessness off.

"Er... would we just... sit?" I gestured to the fireplace. "Or..." I waved at the staircase, not sure what I was going to suggest. Or what? _Come up to my room and fuck?_   Merlin. Why was it so awkward?

"Sit... would be fine," Draco said, already heading to the sofa.

We sat, staring into the fire, and I was not sure of what to do next, when the elf popped out of nowhere with a tray and a bottle of champagne on it.

"Merry Christmas, Sirs," he said, putting the tray down and conjuring two flute glasses out of the air. "Champagne is been serves tonight to every persons of age at Hogwarts. Sirs is being leave the Ball. Filly is bring champagne to Sirs."

With a bow, he disappeared before we even could say thank you.

"You know," Draco said after a while, "we don't have to be drunk to kiss."

"No." I put my glass down.

The next second I straddled him, pressing his shoulders into the back of the sofa. His short laugh turned into a gasp when I was rubbing against him whole. That damned jacket cut into my armpits, so I wrenched it off, throwing it on the floor.

"You're a barbarian," he said, reaching to free my throat from the bowtie.

"I am." I bent down to kiss him, open mouthed and hot. His head fell back, and he tasted of champagne.

I grind down, dragging out electric friction that made him squeeze my arse and respond, rolling his hips up. That was so brilliant, that was what I wanted: to make him shudder and gasp, because of what I was doing to him. His maddening tongue was doing wild things to me, and his hardness pressed into mine. I gripped handfuls of his hair and leaned my forehead against his. My glasses cut into my nose, but I couldn't care less, I was so close...

The door banged, lights flaring on, and I didn't have time to do anything but look up to see bewildered faces of the people in the doorway.

"Fuck," Draco said quietly into my neck. Behind me the fire was crackling, loud in the silent room.

More people entered, I saw Ron and Gin and shimmer of Parkinson's scales.

Slowly, Draco turned his head to look over the back of the sofa. I sat back on his lap.

"Okay, guys," Parkinson said cheerfully, "who's down for a round of Spin the Bottle?"

"Good idea!" Gin said, "Come on!"

She grabbed Parkinson's arm, pulling her along to the farthest end of the room, where a bunch of armchairs was gathered in wide circle on the carpet.

The moment was broken, washing the tension away. Some people followed, others began to climb the stairs. Ron turned away, walking to the armchairs where people were gathering on the floor. No one approached us.

I slid off Draco's lap. He made a movement to stand up.

"Where are you going?"

He shook his head. "Just..."

I took his hand. “No one gives a fuck."

There was a burst of laughter behind us, and when I turned to look - Parkinson in the circle pulled Gin into the kiss to the cheers and applause of people around. Ron covered his face.

"No one gives a fuck," I repeated.

Hermione entered and stopped, meeting my eyes, but then just headed to sit on Ron's lap.

"Stay." I pressed into his side.

Putting his arm around my shoulder, he stayed.

Later we lay, tucked into each other on the narrow sofa, our feet sticking out over its side. The buzz of voices and a stray laughter scattered around the room. No one was paying us any attention, and it felt great.

"Remember you said in the letter, there was something that could have pointed at me?" I asked, my fingertips drawing circles in his hair. My neck was craned, and there was no room enough for two, but I'd never felt better in my life. "Some detail, what was it?"

"About a boy who was a jerk, the one you hated as a kid," he said, the low rumble of his voice vibrating against my chest, "you repeatedly said there were someone whom you disliked before, but then started to get along with." He tilted his head up to look at me. "It sounded all too familiar, I should’ve guessed. But you _never_ crossed my mind. You had a girlfriend."

"And so did you," I said.

"Not quite." He tucked his head back under my chin. "Stroke my hair, don't stop."

I didn't stop.

I don't remember falling asleep.

**

"Glasses?" He smirks. "Come over and get them."

I roll over on top of him, pressing him into the sofa while my hand rummages over the carpet.

"Here they are." I put them on my nose.

"You are crushing me," he says.

His hair is a mess, face soft from sleep, and his dark-golden eyelashes are thick and short.

"Do you mind?" I ask.

"Not at all.”

And I feel a faint scratch of his morning stubble against my lips as I kiss him.

**

How are people supposed to behave when they are dating?

It's what we are doing now, right? Is it really dating? Are we _boyfriends_ or what? I don't know... but we are _something._

Dating Gin meant we spent a lot of time together, doing Quidditch, doing nothing, kissing with her sitting on my lap, holding hands in the corridors.

Surely we can do the same with Draco? As to the holding hands part... I mean, I don't know whether two guys are supposed to do that in front of other people? Or kiss openly, not giving a fuck who may see? But what's the difference, what's the big deal? Why should I do it secretly if it's a guy? Why am I allowed to do it openly only with girls? All this is mental and not that simple.

After the night spent on the sofa, I got up tired but feeling as brilliant as I haven't felt in ages. There were people in the Common Room, going for breakfast, giving us looks, but no one said anything.

"Meet you in a half an hour?" I said on the landing, throwing my rumpled jacket over my shoulder. "I'll come to fetch you. For breakfast."

"To my room?"

"Yes, I'll knock," I said.

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to kiss him. I mean, I wanted to, but maybe it would've been over the top?

So I touched his hand briefly _\- "See you" - a_ nd went to my room.

"Come in!" The voice shouted when I knocked at his door sometime later; someone else's voice.

Sitting on the bed, Zabini was lacing his shoes. 

"Draco's in the bathroom," he said before I had a chance to open my mouth, "he'll be back in a minute." He stood up.

"Look, Potter." He approached me, crossing his arms on his chest. "Are we ever going to talk about it? I'm really _fucking sorry_ , and I'm gonna apologise again."

I shook my head. It was so awkward, so many things had happened, wild things he'd been a part of. A lot of them I'd still want to go differently or not to happen at all, but some of them - certain things in particular - I would have never changed.

" _Fine_ , Zabini... let's just... not talk about it. Move on."

He stared, obviously expecting me to protest or insult him, but not to agree.

"Really? You forgive me?

"I don't think I forgive you, just... I'm not _that_ mad at you anymore."

He nodded and cautiously offered his hand. I took it, giving him a brief handshake. We'd never be friends, but I really wanted to close this thing between us and never return to it again.

The door opened, letting Draco in. He'd changed into black jeans and a high neck woollen sweater. Frowning, he looked between us, as though expecting us to get at each other's throat. We still might.

Letting go of my hand, Zabini nodded and walked out, leaving us alone.

"What was that?" Draco asked.

"We've sorted things out.”

Now, when we are heading to breakfast, our shoulders barely touching, I don't know how to behave. I mean, I know how to behave around him:  in his room I came up and kissed him, and it was good. But when people are watching? When the moment we step into the Entrance Hall all eyes are on us?

There's noise and voices and clatter of trunks. Students are leaving for Christmas. I feel naked again, exposed, knowing my every step is scrutinised more than ever. But Draco's beside me, and most certainly he feels the same; and all those people saw us kissing last night anyway.

I glance at him. His face is wary, but there's determination, and I know he won't back off.

I don't know if it's right - what I'm going to do - if he wants it, I don't know what he might reply. But I want it, I want to know, and the only way is to ask:

"I want to hold your hand."

"So hold it," he says.

And I do.³

Together we step into the Great Hall.

**

"Pansy cornered me after I'd written that note on the information board," he says, "she recognised my mother's handwriting. I mean - I modified my handwriting into my mother's. Hadn't thought Pans would figure out. But we'd grown up together, you know, family invitations and stuff; holiday cards they received from my mother and such."

We are sitting at dinner, just the two of us at the end of the deserted Gryffindor table. The Great Hall is almost empty, safe for the teachers and a few students here and there. Everyone has left for Christmas.

**

"All this stuff is absolutely crazy, just... be careful, Harry." Gin hugged me this morning on her way out. She is joining the training for the Holyhead Harpies after New Year, so I have no idea how soon we may meet again.

"I will, Gin." I squeezed her hand. "Thank you for..." I didn't finish.

"I mean it." Her face was grim. "I know a lot has changed since... but... It's _Malfoy._ I hope you know what you're doing."

"I know, Gin," I said, "I do."

I looked in her wake until she disappeared among the crowd heading to the Gates.

**

"Pans made me admit it. Told me she's gay too. That's when we decided to put her parents off," he continues.

"Pretend-dating?"

"Yep."

"Ah, okay... it's for her parents you were sucking your brains out, snogging at the Halloween party?"

"No... that was..." He waves his hand, searching for a word. "Competitiveness. To prove that Slytherins are able to last longer than any other House."

"Competitiveness? How even... you are _insane_ , by the way." I nudge his leg under the table.

"What?” He raises his eyebrows. “We did it, we won."

"No, I mean... kissing... I wouldn't be able to give that impression. That she's your girlfriend, I mean."

I don't know how to put it, but most certainly, if it were Gin and I in their place, our kiss would've been neither that long, nor that heated. Kissing her I never managed to get _that_ caught up in the moment.

"It wasn't real... and we were drunk... and..." He trails off.

"What?"

"Kissing _you_ that night felt real, though. I tried not to show how much I enjoyed it."

Oh, _that_ kiss. The mere thought of it still makes me hot all over. 

"I was so shocked," I say, "that was insane. And then I wrote you that I fantasised about you, imagining it were you, but I didn't know that, we both had no idea... it's crazy."

"All this still feels crazy to me." He nudges my leg in response.

I smile at him over my cup. If someone told me before that this Christmas I'd find myself dating _Draco Malfoy..._ I would have advised them to check their head.

**

The click of the closing door is loud in the bathroom. My hands reach up to unfasten my cloak. There was no one else on the Quidditch pitch, just the two of us. Now - the showers. He locks the door. My fingers are trembling.

He discards his cloak while I still fumble with mine. He sits down on the bench to get rid of his boots.

I take the garment off. Now the sweater, the T-shirt. I bend down to remove my greaves. Boots and socks. Not looking at him, I stand up and reach for the belt buckle, which is all that is left intact. _Click-click._ I tug the trousers down, and only when they finally rest on the bench, I look up.

Still in his shirt, he is fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. There's tension to his quiet posture and all the uncertainty in the world.

This is all the courage I need.

"Take it off," I say, "I've already seen it."

I know what is trying to stand between us again, the thing that always did. This time I am determined not to let it.

Holding my gaze, he stands up, his pale bare feet vulnerable against the tiles. His fingers begin their run down the buttons, bringing down his defences with every move. The plain of his chest, pale shoulders; the shirt is off.

I come close to trace my fingers up his right forearm, and the other - the one he holds stiffly, not trying to hide it though.

I close my eyes.

Tracing his wrist, I slide my fingers up, bracing myself to feel what is to come, what I think I will feel, what is _there._ But there is nothing. _Nothing_. It's just skin.

I look.

It's _there,_ of course it is, its black outline standing out against his skin as ugly as I remember. It hasn't changed, but I know _he_ has; he is changing. Though the stain, the reminder of what he'd once been, is etched into his body and will never go away.

"It's a scar," I say, "I have them, too." I realise he is holding his breath.

My unsteady fingers trail a thin ropey scar across his chest, and another one - a slash of silvery-white on his white skin - from the collarbone all the way down.

So many things we talked about, so much is still left unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, touching my face to his shoulder.

When he doesn't reply, I look up. His face is resigned and relieved, and _something else_ , when he brushes my hair aside to press his lips to the scar on my forehead.

Water is hot down our shoulders, everything's hot. We are naked before each other for the first time.

He puts his hand on my hip.

I look down to where we are both hard. I don't know where this is going, or how it may end up, but my body's impatient to find out. I step closer, erasing all the remaining space between us.

I slide my hands up and around his back, feeling the hard ridges of his ribcage, his spine and shoulder blades. He is all sharp angles. Only the globes of his arse are round and smooth, and I revel in the touch, in something I am finally allowed to.

His lips are on my ear.

"I want to touch you," he says.

I nod and let him.

His hand on my cock is so careful and firm, moving in the rhythm so perfect, as though he's skilled in this. I lean against the wall. Surely I must return the favour... and I want to... and I will... it's just right now I can't. I close my eyes, helpless against what he's doing to me.

"Do you like it?" He whispers against my lips.

_Oh do I?_

I nod and gasp and thrust into his hand, and finally explode with a cry, my knees going weak.

"Fuck." Catching my breath, I throw my head back against the wall.

He laughs, leaning close. His wet hair is plastered back, away from his forehead, giving him a rather severe and formal look. What a ridiculous thought, giving what we're doing here.

I grin, turning us around to press him into the wall, and slide my hand down his stomach. I've never done this to anyone before, but there's the first time for everything.

When I begin to move my hand along his length, a sudden memory flashes vivid.

"You know," I say, "once I was doing this right here." I firm my grip, watching as the swollen head of his cock disappears into my fist to emerge again and repeat. "In this very stall, imagining you doing it."

My hand is relentless, his neck arches, I plant a kiss under his jaw.

"What? _Ah!.."_ He says, not opening his eyes, "wanking someone here?"

"No... alone... I was wanking myself, alone." I look down again at my hand flicking over his cock – flushed and thick, filling my palm perfectly - this is absolutely crazy. "Imagining watching _you_ doing it."

"Naughty..." His breath is shallow. " _Bad boy..."_

His mouth falls open, another stroke, and I feel as his warmth spreads sticky over my fingers. He moans, I stroke him all the way through, until he puts his hand over mine. "Shhh... stop."

I kiss him.

“I think I could use a nap.” He yawns, rinsing shampoo out of his hair. We've finally got to wash.

Some half an hour later, we are heading along the corridor to my room, carrying our clothes, giggling like two idiots - because we are naked, and there's no one here to stop us.

We curl into each other in my bed, sleeping through the lunchtime.

I dream of Draco Constellation written along his forearm, and no trace of the Dark Mark.

Every time I move in my sleep, I feel his presence. His arm around my chest is warm, stars are flickering beneath my eyelids, and I am happy.

**

_1 January, 1999_

I'm hurrying down the staircase, all the way to the basement to press the largest pear on the painting next to the Hufflepuff Common Room.

I'm here for coffee and a toast and a chance to be alone. To savour this moment, to revel in joy, all the way grinning like a loon. I am happy, I'm bringing him breakfast, and I want to be back before he's awake.

Soreness in my body is a reminder.

Last night brought us something that hasn't been there before. We tried to have everything, to go all the way, but failed. Maybe our bodies weren't ready yet, or maybe I wasn't insistent enough when he refused to hurt me further. It takes a new kind of trust, and now I know - we have it.

"Maybe next time," he said, planting kisses over my chest and stomach, all the way down, until his lips touched my aching cock. He bore down and pulled back and sucked and did it all over again. I gripped his hair, holding on for dear life, until everything rose to the surface, shattering me with joy.

I returned the favour.

Later, watching his sleeping face, I thought how everything had changed, how many changes this New Year is yet to bring us - changes that I want to discover, waking up beside him every morning.

I grab the loaded tray, saying _“thank you, thank you,”_ to the bowing elves, and hurry right back, levitating the tray behind.

Quietly I step into the room. His fair head is the only visible part of him among the sheets. I think he's still asleep, but he turns.

"Hi." I lower the tray down onto the bedside table. "Have you been awake for a long time?"

"A bit," he says, sitting up, "where have you been?"

He watches me from under his ruffled fringe, he is all sharp angles and soft gaze, and my greedy eyes can't get enough.

"Haven't you read my note?" I ask, sitting down on the bed beside him.

"What note?"

There on the pillow next to him is a piece of parchment, he picks it up.

**_"Draco,_ **

**_I'm out to fetch us some food. I'll be right back even before you wake up._ **

**_Love, Harry."_ **

I read over his shoulder.

He turns to meet my eyes. And when I think there is possibly no joy greater than I already feel - he _SMILES_.

I’ve been wrong, there _is_.

THERE IS.

And I have nothing left to do, but kiss him.

***** The End *****

______________________________________________________________________

[3]: _“- I want to hold your hand._

_\- So hold it, he says._

_And I do.”_

\- quote from the novel ‘Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda’ by Becky Albertalli

 

 

**_I am on Tumblr:[big-draco-energy](https://big-draco-energy.tumblr.com/)_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
>  You are very welcome to share your thoughts in comments below. <3
> 
> ***
> 
> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  Creations are posted anonymously during the posting period. The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2019/works) on 15 June.


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